Sister Golden Hair
by phantomwriter05
Summary: After the fall of Kings Landing, young war hero Eddard Stark wants sometime alone in the godswood. But what he finds is a kindered soul over a sack of wine. Ned/Cersei. Robert's Rebellion
1. Chapter 1

"Robert for king!"

"The bloody wall will melt before I'll bend the knee to that lack-wit boy!"

"Watch your tongue Umber!"

"Or what Carron?"

"I'm with Jon! Lord Eddard for King!"

"NO!"

"NO!"

"Tully!"

"Lord Robert has the claim!"

"The only thing Robert Baratheon can claim is the itch that fishermen's wife gave his cock at Stony Sept!"

As the young slender youth exited the overcrowded small council chamber there was roar of laughter from many and a few protests at the jape the young man's bannerman made.

His shoulders slunk as his boots scrapped the polished floor of the Red Keep. He had never seen the capital before. He had heard of it from his father and Brandon. They had gone twice, once when Prince Rheagar was born and then with Prince Viserys. Even Robert and old Jon had been here more than once.

But this was Eddard Stark's first time in the castle. Maybe if he had been here when the Targaryen's where still ruling than it might have been more majestic, mean more to walk its halls as Maegor's conqueror. But the grand red fortress was nothing more than just another castle he took, one more hollow victory. None of this will matter till Lyanna was in his arms again, till she was safe back at Winterfell, with him.

He knew that Robert would want to marry her the minute she was to safety, but things have changed. The man that Eddard's father thought his daughter was going to marry when they made the pack was not the man who stared at the bodies of two dead babes and their mother wrapped in crimson cloaks and nodded in approval.

Eddard Stark swore a vow not a fortnight ago that Lyanna would never be his wife. Whatever pact or holy bond Robert had with the Stark's it died with Princess Elia and her children.

"Anything I can do for you my lord?"

Jory Cassel was a good squire and a good lad to have in the thick of the fight. At fifteen, he was only several years younger than him but there was not a better sword north of the Neck.

The young knight rubbed his shoulder tiredly. "No, no thank you, Jory." He commented walking down the corridor and out into the throne room. It was dark inside the expansive hall. The Lannister massacre of the entire castle from landed knight to scrubbing woman left the castle understaffed. Meaning there was hardly anyone to light the torches in the throne room.

"There's a lot of yelling in there my lord …" Jory pointed out at they walked down the steps.

Ned noticed that the boy's stare was constantly drawn to the iron throne that sat high in the room. Outside the moonlight was spilling through the stain glass reflecting odd shapes and colors on the floor and giving the old melted swords a glint as they paced away.

Ned snorted. "Word of advice, when they say "Lords' Convention" what they really mean is old men yelling and shaking family trees at one another." He laughed.

"Your name came up quite a bit my lord" the squire pointed out.

A groan escaped his throat. "I didn't come down here to win a crown …" he said sternly, a little too stern it seemed judging by Jory's cautious steps afterward.

He stopped at the entrance and placed his hand over his face and sighed tiredly. Across the hall Great Jon Umber's voice was ringing clear as day.

"AND WHERE DO YOU SUPPOSED YOU CAN STICK YOUR LANNISTER GOLD, SER KEVIN?"

He heard Jory chuckle under his breath.

Ned looked up at the youth, there must have been something his eyes, because the boy went silent the minute they fell on him.

"I'm sorry, my lord …" He cleared his throat.

With a sigh, Ned shook his head. "No, don't apologize … gods know someone needs to have their spirits up." He clapped a hand on his squire's shoulder and shook him friendly.

Jory nodded. "I don't blame you; I'm worried about her too." He empathized.

There was something about the statement that made him pause. He sometimes forgot that he hadn't been home but once in many years. He hadn't thought that many of his bannermen and their children probably knew his sweet sister better these days than he did.

He could see her in his head, her long brunet curls and slender body dancing around laughing, playing keep away with his helmet as he chased her through the great hall. Her brown eyes how they looked so soft and gentle as she listened to Rheagar sing at Harrenhal. Suddenly an anxiousness welled in his chest as he listened to the arguing over who should take the crown. Ned could hear his own words echoing in his mind.

"_I didn't come down here to win a crown." _

"We're wasting time."

"My lord?" Jory broke his concentration.

Ned rubbed his stubble thoughtfully. "When that mummers farce is done in there, tell the boys, Ser Brynden Tully, and his command that we're moving out on the morrow." He ordered walking away.

"Aye, my lord … but where are we going?"

"The Tyrell's are besieging Storms End, I intend to end this war … then we go to Dorne"

"What's in Dorne my lord?"

Without turning around he answered over the echoes of his footfalls.

"Three members of the Kingsguard are missing … it's time we find them."

###

This was a place where a Stark could be a Stark.

The garden was beautiful at night and peaceful. Amongst the flowers and roses grown around the stone walkways toward the Heart tree, millions of fireflies circled the rose buds and vines that interwove through the stone. There was a peaceful sloshing of a fountain that sat in the middle of the path with a circular bench surrounding it.

Out of all the places in the two hundred and fifty year old city, it wasn't the Sept of Baelor, or the old dragon skulls, not even the iron throne, it was the god's wood that Ned was most taken with.

Walking past the glowing bugs and the rain of cherry blossoms carried on the warm southern wind of the night; it was hard for there not to be a moment of peace inside his chest.

Stopping in front of the fountain he looked into the serene sloshing water and stuck his hand inside, surprised at the coolness of it despite its exposer to the heat of the day. Blossoms tickled his face as they floated by.

His mind was suddenly a million miles away. Back north to Riverrun, back to a wife he knew only through Brandon's ravens. It was hard not to remember the day he met Catelyn Tully for the first time in her black silk gown with the skirts ripped in mourning. She had been crying according to her sister Lysa, who looked just as miserable as Catelyn did but for completely different reasons.

Everything about their wedding day was forced, from the breakfast, to the ceremony where they couldn't seem to synch their glances with each other or find the right head incline for their first kiss. Then at the feast he truly felt bad for his wife when Lord Holster Tully kept pushing Catelyn to do things for Ned, as if to show him what he married wasn't defective. Then when he bedded her that night …

Ned shook his head and for a moment. He could still hear her quiet sobs when they were done. Both apologized to one another afterward, Brandon was too fresh for both of them and it just didn't seem right. Rather than sleep, he took a seat on the balcony and looked out over the river, his wife in his lap. Together they gradually got use to one another's company.

"_It wasn't meant to be like this …" _

Removing his hand out of the water he walked slowly to the stone bench near the fountain and lay back on it without a thought. Placing a hand behind his head he looked up at the fields of twinkling stars, like a million perfect snowflakes on a Night's Watch banner.

"You look like a fish my uncle Gerion caught once …"

The exquisitely beautiful face of a girl with long blond locks blocking the moon above him took Ned by surprise. He was startled that someone had been sitting on the bench the whole time and he had failed to notice them. His head was so near to a pink silk skirt he was nearly inches from laying his head on her lap.

Ned sat up quickly and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry … Lady Cersei, I didn't see you there." He addressed Lord Tywin Lannister's eldest child by seconds and only daughter.

The girl gave a sly grin and bright a sack of wine up to her mouth to drink. "That was the point …" She replied taking a gulp.

Ned had seen her once already. When he and Ser Brynden Tully arrived at the newly captured stronghold he had caught sight of a beautiful maiden with golden hair watching him. She had been surrounded by Lannister guardsmen when he reined up. When she watched him with those bright green eyes as he sat above her eight feet high there was something in them that held his gaze. It was a true moment in time when it seemed there was nothing but the two of them in the burning city.

Since then he hadn't seen her. Lord Tywin kept her and Jaime out of sight and under guard. The caution that a bloody battle could erupt between his men and the Lannister army was always on the back of everyone's mind, ever since the murder of Rheagar's children.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked looking around.

She studied him with cool annoyance. "Getting drunk, I thought it would be quite obvious, my lord." Her voice sounded slightly slurred with condescendence like she's been talking down to high lords her entire life.

There was something about the way she addressed him that produced a chuckle and a shake of his head.

"Do you find me funny, Lord Stark?" She asked perplexed taking another drink from the wine skin.

He began to laugh again, this time bowing his head in his hands. The girl made a noise through her nose as she swallowed down the wine with an unlady like gulp.

"Maybe I should sell my title, forsake my family, and join a mummer's troop …" She replied in annoyance, but for reasons unknown there was a smile on her face that only his laugh could bring out of her.

Ned sighed and scrubbed his face. "Forgive me my lady … it's just my title." He returned his gaze to her as she watched with interest.

Cersei lifted an eyebrow. "Yes?" She asked.

Ned looked at the fountain listening to the water slosh. "I've heard it a thousand times … but I never thought that it would be me that people would be addressing." He snorted. "There're times when someone calls me "Lord Stark" and I … I call out for father, or move to push Bran for his attention … but, uh, they're not there." He shook his head and sighed sadly.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder. He found green eyes studying him with a glint of sympathy. In Cersei's other hand she offered him her wine skin. It had been no secret what had happened to his father and Brandon only several months earlier and even then her twin brother had actually been in the room when it happened. Somehow Eddard Stark figured she probably knew more about the incident than he did.

He gave her a nod and took the wine skin from her, their hands brushing slightly. For a moment they paused and stared. "Thank you …" He cleared his throat apologetically and swigged, closing his eyes. He felt the burn on the way down, it was a good tingle and it seemed to settle his nerves. He sighed and opened his eyes watching the moon reflected on the rippling dark water of the fountain.

When he turned he found that Cersei was still watching him, her eyes never left. They seemed to sparkle when a firefly flew between them. He gave her a nervous smile and turned away from the piercing stare.

"Do I bother you, Lord Stark?" She asked in a suddenly husky low tone.

Ned turned back and looked her in the eyes. "No, my lady … just puzzle me." He replied with a studying look.

She tilted her head with a smile. "You surprise me, Lord Stark. Most, if not many men have claimed to know my sex, like they know a wild animal they hunt in their woods. But you're the first man that admits the truth of the matter."

"Which is what?"

The Teenage girl got a sly grin. "You no nothing, Eddard Stark." She took the wine skin from him and drank.

The laughed at her tone, caused Cersei to cough on the wine from her own.

"You have me there … I understand how to move a formation of Knights on the battlefield, but not a woman's mood." He rubbed his stubble thoughtfully with a smile.

There was a long comfortable silence that followed as the two sat in the god's wood listening to the fountain and watched the fireflies dance around them. Finally Ned looked around and back at her. The girl had such sad eyes as she watched the little orbs of light make strange patterns of their reflection on the dark water.

"What troubles you tonight my lady?" Ned fought the urge to take the girl's hand in his as he spoke gently.

Cersei's cheeks where flushed and her eyes were like emerald glass wetted by rain. She looked out across the yard toward the throne room.

"I've come to Kings landing to be wed …" She said sadly as if not knowing or remembering that he was even there. Ned was surprised, Cersei Lannister was considered the most beautiful woman in all Westros, surely if Tywin Lannister had made the girl a match, her betrothed would be bragging of it to anyone who would listen.

The frown he gave her wrinkled his brow. "To who?" He asked.

She shrugged. "To whoever the convention decides I must …" She turned back to him.

It all made sense to Ned now, everyone knew that no one amongst his friends and fellow Rebels would ever consider Tywin Lannister king. But that didn't mean that he couldn't provide a queen for the new lord of the seven kingdoms.

There was a rage on her as she began to rant "I'm to be auctioned off like a Meeran bed slave. Treated like some prize warhorse that some great knight can show off in parades, have his servants brush down and feed carrots during the day so that he can mount me at night and ride me into battle!" She flung the now empty wine sack in frustration. Angry helpless tears slid slowly down her cheeks.

There was a kinship to the girl that Eddard Stark couldn't believe he found. When he was to marry Catelyn, he was also furious and frustrated. He thought that Holster Tully would be behind them after what had happened to Brandon, but the man swore that his bannermen were mostly loyalists and that Ned had to reassure him that his part in the rebellion would be worth his wile. He remembered old Jon and Ser Brynden holding him back when he rushed at Holster willing to kill the older man.

Cersei lowered her head in her hands and let out angry sobs as she cried drunkenly next to him. There was a weakness that overcame him and cautiously he placed his hand on her shoulder, the way a soldier would comfort another.

But suddenly the girl leaned into his chest uninvited, sobbing into his boiled leather surcoat. With a shaky breath he gently took her in his arms and held her.

"We all have a duty to our family … to our responsibilities." He comforted her with the words he told himself the morning of his wedding day. "In the end, it's all we have." He cleared his throat.

The girl lifted her head from his chest and studied him. It was the most intimate look he had ever been given from a woman in his entire life. A strange feeling overcame him, like he was naked, like she was naked, naked together hiding nothing from each other.

"Take it …" She whispered.

Ned saw nothing to lose; no boundaries anymore when he lifted his hand gently stroking the tears off her smooth cheek.

"Take what?" He asked quietly.

The beauty leaned into his touch. "The kingdom, the iron throne, and … me. Take me Lord Stark." She whispered nuzzling his hand.

The humanity of Eddard Stark would have kissed Cersei Lannister with all of his soul. He would sweep her off her feet and carry her to the small council chamber and declare himself king. With Lannister's on his side and their freshest forces, all the lords would bend the knee to Ned. He would wed the girl in his arms and live in all the glory and love forever and ever.

But there were responsibilities, oaths, and other duties. Catelyn waited for him at Riverrun, the North was leaderless and Benjen was nothing but a boy with the Nights Watch on the brain. Then there was Lyanna … the reason he was there in the first place.

"_I didn't come down here to win a crown … nor to fall in love with someone I can never have." _

Ned looked to be in physical pain. "I'm sorry … I'm sorry, Cersei …" It was the only time Eddard Stark ever called her by her name.

"No, Ned, Please …" She begged in fear of the uncertainty of tomorrow. She held on tight to him, all dignity lost.

"I didn't come down here for that damn iron chair." He shook his head.

Cersei was crying again and kissing his cheek. "Please" She got more aggressive, crawling into his lap trying to find his lips. "Take me!" She begged.

She was no longer a maiden, nor a highborn lady, just a frightened girl who made the first real connection with another human.

"please!" He cried out in emotionally pulling her away from him. She looked broken and frightened, trembling with emotion pent up for years. Eddard Stark hadn't been a boy in months, but he was now.

"I'm married …" It felt like broken glass in his throat trying to fight the words out.

He couldn't win, all he could see was Catelyn alone at Riverrun, abandoned by both Starks. She was his wife wither he wanted it or not. She had done nothing to harm him, only be the daughter of an opportunist.

There was a light in Cersei's eyes that began to die. Even in his arms he could feel coldness spread inside her, like an open pool of water in winter at the Wolfs Wood.

She closed her eyes and slowly he felt a soberness overcome her. Ned Stark had held the body of his uncle at the Battle of Stony Sept as he died, suddenly he felt that way holding Cersei Lannister.

"One" She asked, her eyes closed, her voice hardening.

"One?"

"Just one, just to know what it would have been like."

"My lady …"

"One … just one, please."

He nodded and took a deep breath. He pushed away Winterfell, the face of his wife, Lyanna, and the battles he fought, and will fight in the coming fortnight. He was a boy, just a boy, holding a beautiful girl who liked the way he smiled.

The minute he pressed his lips to hers he knew it shouldn't have happened. There wasn't a word for how those few moments felt, her wet lips pressed to his, her hands touching his face. But he knew, in a minute of clairvoyance that had he not married Catelyn Tully, had he fought the war alone and gotten to this moment in his life and took Cersei Lannister as his wife. Terrible things won't happen.

Their lips smacked when they broke apart and after that he felt Cersei Lannister finally die in his arms. When she opened her eyes a cold ferocious stranger met him.

"Thank you, Lord Stark …" He let her go and she stood.

"For what?" He asked visibly pained. Whither or not it counted, he had just betrayed Catelyn, not by flesh, but by heart, by love.

"For helping me understand …"

The stranger lifted her skirts and walked away, leaving a hardened soldier with the bodies of a boy and girl, dead and intertwined.

"_**You should have taken the throne for yourself, Lord Stark."**_


	2. Fire & Rain

_**Do to the very kind words and encouragement of my reviewers I decided to write this one shot into a three chapter story. **_

**Fire & Rain**

**17 Years Later**

She watched him with cold fierce eyes, like a caged lioness that had paced back and forth so many times that she had made herself sick.

The serving wench wasn't even pretty, some kitchen servant or bakers daughter by the size of her ass. She may have even been the cook's wife from the sight of those rotted teeth. She wasn't the sleek, pale, golden-haired beauty that was Cersei Lannister, yet this woman had her husband's full attention on the cold northern night.

She knew he had done this on purpose. He may be a smelly, fat man that whiffed of ale who made Tommen's eyes water when he wanted the boy to give him a hug, but Cersei Lannister knew after seventeen years that her husband always knew what he was doing. King Robert Baratheon wanted to shame his wife, wanted her to see him bed another, a lesser woman. All of it was for talking back to him over the statue of the dead Stark girl.

Cersei wanted to comfort herself, she was prettier, and she was smarter. Yet there was a sad almost vulnerability to her green eyes as she watched her husband lick ale of the blusterous kitchen servant's pale, dirty cleavage.

"She got an earthy taste to her!" He declared to the entire feast in a booming laughing voice.

Pearl white teeth clenched under a stony mask as knights and retainers, lords and lordlings, Northerners and Southerners, all of them cheered in laughter at the King.

"_Fools" _The golden beauty sneered in her mind and turned to her hostess seated next to her. Catelyn Stark said nothing to the display Robert was putting on. Under her courtesy she could tell that the handsome red-haired older woman was just as disgusted by it as Cersei was. But Catelyn Stark was a gentlewomen's gentlewoman, a true lady, and she would never portray a hint of anything she was thinking. She had her role, she took it with pride, and played it like a finely tuned instrument.

"_This one isn't a fool, mearly a sheep." _

Cersei let it go; she figured that it didn't take a woman of high intelligence to run an estate in such a frigid wasteland like the North. But, once again, she couldn't help feel saddened by what she saw around her. Catelyn was a sheep's sheep, but she had five healthy children, all of whom loved and cared for each other. She watched them below the dais play and laugh with one another, tell stories of childhood adventures, and of course argue. They were all happy children.

A sense of rising bitterness took hold of her, a vile envy, a deep jealousy of the woman sitting next to her, as Cersei watched her smile down at the children. Suddenly, the queen was looking over her hostess the way she had been the baker's slut her husband was licking. Cersei stared at Catelyn's plainly-styled auburn hair, her unremarkable and drab gown, and the vague wrinkles on the corners of her lips. She was a beauty once, no denying it, but now she had gone to waste like everything in this place. The North took everything and left nothing for her. Cersei wondered what had made this woman so special, more important than her all those years ago.

Her eyes wandered below and began observing the Stark children's faces, smiling, ignorant and happy. Both of this fish daughter's sons were handsome and strong, both daughters beautiful. It somehow made the acid in her chest burn even more to see such blessings.

Then in a moment of clarity she remembered him, remembered her own piece of the North. The queen quietly began to look for him on the benches, leaning on the walls maybe? She began to search for him somewhere in the great hall. She wanted to look at him again, wanted to get a better look. When she arrived in the dreary fortress that was Winterfell, she tried not to stare, tried not to make a scene. For the last month she had been silently nervous about seeing him. She wouldn't know what he would think of her, or more to the point how he would think period. It had been seventeen years, and she had never got to know him long enough to understand him well.

Her searching emerald eyes couldn't find him no matter how hard she looked. She wasn't sure if he was even attending the feast at all. If that were the case she wouldn't know when she would see him again, it would be suspicious and draw much attention to simply go to him, or even just to ask around for him.

When it was clear that he was nowhere to be seen she found herself being watched from afar. It was a familiar sink in the base of her belly that a girl of seventeen had once had sitting in the Godswood of the Red Keep. Cersei somehow knew where to find the pair of mist color eyes boring into her very soul. Leaning against a column on the far end of the great hall, Eddard Stark watched his queen with a nostalgic, fallen face. The sternness that was always a part of the hardened soldier was forgotten in a moment of memories of younger years, past glories and … lost loves.

Almost as if he had taken her hand, they both walked through a door that hadn't been opened in years.

_She had to find him, he had to be here somewhere, and there were only so many places father would let him go in the big red fortress. A beautiful, golden haired teenage girl was pacing her room tearing it apart looking for her other half that seemed to have disappeared as she returned. _

_Cersei had to see him now; she needed to feel his arms around her. She wanted him to hold her, to whisper in her ear, not comforts, never comforts. She wanted to hear truths, confident promises that they would be together forever. After tonight she had to be reminded that she had someone, that this feeling of pain in her heart wouldn't be forever. _

_She felt like a fool throwing herself at the young stranger, begging him to take her, like some frightened little girl. She was a Lannister of the Rock and Lions feared nothing. But it was more than that, in those moments alone in the Godswood, surrounded by fireflies; she felt something strong, something deep for the young knight sitting next to her. _

_The ease of the company that she had shared with him was so surprising that it caught her off guard. When she was with Jaime he was always joking and making wit of what she told him. She found herself scowling at him most times, but it was a balance. Jaime was one side, and Cersei the other, together they made one. But when she talked with her serious young lord tonight, she couldn't describe how joyful it felt to see him smile, and how sweet a victory it was to hear him laugh and know it was because of her._

_The truth was she wanted him; she wanted him more than anything in the world. Yet it was never meant to be. Cersei was going to be betrothed tomorrow and yet it wouldn't be to either boy she wanted. _

_The thought made her sad and anxious, a mix of emotions that she couldn't take sitting down, or standing still. When she got on her knees she knew she wouldn't find Jaime underneath her large canopied bed, but it was all she could do to stop from curling in a ball and crying. _

_Knock, Knock_

_Knock!_

_Three taps on her door and she was there before the last one was done. She sighed gratefully, knowing she was going to lose it the minute she saw her twin brother's face. She was going to toss her arms around him and loose herself the minute he walked through that door. She pulled it open and bent her knees slightly ready to jump into his arms, take in that wonderful leather smell of his coat and know she would never be alone. But when she saw who was standing there she took a step back and gasped in surprise. _

_Ned Stark, young, handsome, in his boiled leather surcoat and long-sleeve blue shirt stood outside her door. He caught her eyes, his face twitched painfully and then looked down at his grimy brown boots with shame._

"_My lady …" He started but stopped, unsure what he would add to it. _

_Cersei's eyes grew wild; her hand ached to slap him. How dare he come to her after rebuffing her need for him. She was a lioness, and yet tonight he took her power away, took her dignity. Ned Stark made her feel powerless._

"_Lord Stark … I believe we ended our conversation earlier." She replied with such icy courtesy that they could have used her to build a level on the Wall. _

_The young Knight opened his mouth then closed it, before he spoke. "My lady, I … I couldn't leave you without." He replied with a chancing look._

_Cersei scoffed, a moment of mad honesty took her. "Well, my Lord Stark, I believe you, like I, will have to live without for the rest of our lives." She grabbed the door and swung it. _

_PLUNK_

_The young Warden of the North stuck his boot in the doorway, halting the door. He pushed it open again, forcing her back. His stoic, dark eyes reflecting some great helpless anger as he stepped out of the shadowy torch light of the corridor and into her candle-lit bedchamber. She staggered backward a moment, waiting for him to make the next move. _

_But suddenly, as quickly as it was there, the aggression in the youth's eyes was gone. She had rather admitted to herself she liked it when he showed his aggressive side. There was a frustration in him that could be seen manifesting in his clenched jaw. He wanted her, but he didn't know how to take her. _

"_Lady Cersei …" He shook his head. "My lady, I couldn't … couldn't leave our conversation the way it was. I'm here to …" Ned didn't know what to say. _

_She hated him, hated that he made her feel something for someone else. There were other people, Ned Stark had his vows to Catelyn spoken at Riverrun, and Cersei had her vows to Jaime spoken in a squeal of a pink newborn to another holding onto her ankle as they came out of her mother's womb. _

_Both knew it was wrong, that whatever this was it was damned by the gods, man and possibility. But Cersei couldn't stop thinking the one thing that was on her mind since she saw him standing there in her doorway, the torches illuminating everything about the man that took her. _

"_You came back for me." _

_It wasn't a question, it was a comment made by the realization. This wasn't going to last, it couldn't last, or it could threaten everything her family held dear, that both their families held dear. This Realm has already seen in great, bloody horror what happened when a married man ran away with a maiden fair. _

_Her statement made the dark haired knight stiffen, a face tense with conflict. He was once again straddling the line between his honor and his want. Eyes shifting, body shaking, it was as if he was balancing on a rope in a Mummer's show. Or maybe he was sitting on a fence, waiting for a gust of wind, a divine sign from his northern gods to show him the way. _

"_I came back … for you." He acknowledged her. _

_Hearing him say the words, repeating one part of the phrase in his awkward pause seemed to add poignancy to it. "For you" was all she heard. Ned saw her, saw her like Jaime did, but it was different, special because he wasn't a part of her. They were so different in so many ways and yet he cared, he loved. He came back for her … for her_

_Cersei's skirts ruffled as she walked past Ned and to her door. She stood in the doorway and held her breath looking from one torch-lit red hall to the next, making sure it was clear. Then, with a light clank, she closed the door and bolted it. _

_Behind her she could feel the young Northerner touch her arm cautiously when she rested her head against the cool metal frame; a nail head icy on her feverish skin made her shiver. _

"_For me?" She whispered into the wood._

"_Did you say something?" Ned asked taking a firmer grip on her arm. It was the compassion in his touch, the gentleness of how he spoke._

"_Yes …" She turned to him; his hand never leaving her arm. She pressed herself against his chest. "It's the same thing I've been saying since you've come here." The girl whispered, cupping his cheek gently._

_Ned let go of her arm and his hands slowly traced her lower back as he wrapped his strong arms around her waist, and lowered his head against hers, their eyes never leaving. _

"_And what is that, my lady?" he replied seemingly out of breath, gulping in some air as if the heat the two were producing was taking all the oxygen in the room. _

"_Kiss me you honorable fool …"_

_She got on her toes and met her lips to his. Like before it wasn't like Jaime's, nothing was like Jaime's, but this was a good kind of different. New, exciting, she had never kissed anyone else before. They took time to get to know each other's mouths, creating a base for what was to come, a safe place to go back to if either was unsure in the passion to come. _

_When time passed, it was Ned that made the first move when he swept her off her feet and into his arms effortlessly. Their lips were still locked as he carried Cersei to her bed. _

It was Robert's blusterous voice that brought her out of the memory. Her gaze was still on Ned, and Ned's still on her. For one mad moment he was hers again. She imagined herself in his arms that night, and it made her feel something for the first time in many years. But the mad moment passed when Eddard turned away from her; she saw his back as he leaned on a column like a winded runner. Soon a man dressed in black and favoring a Stark look joined him. The door to the past closed shut with a slam and once again left to neglect.

"Is this your first time in the North, your grace?"

Cersei broke her gaze away and back to Catelyn, she gave a stiff smile. "Yes … lovely country."

* * *

><p>The Night was cold and the fires had burned low when Cersei wandered back to the great hall of Winterfell. The feast had ended hours ago, and the stillness of the halls was almost magical. Alone, there was a power to this castle that made sleep uneasy for her. Everything about the Starks of Winterfell was mysterious and strange. Their words, their lords, and now even their halls it seemed. When she was here, she could feel something in the walls, a strange presence of something foreboding.<p>

When it came to retire she knew she would find herself alone. Robert was nowhere to be found, off with his kitchen whore. Her bitterness was waylaid though when Tommen and Myrcella crawled into bed with her. This was their first time away from the Red Keep, they were still small and from all accounts the North was a large and fierce part of the kingdom. They snuggled close into her , her soft words mended their fears and Jaime's easy jests and ticklish fingers caused little sleepy giggles that put them at ease. For the rest of the time she lay in bed holding them and Jaime sat in her vanity chair watching them as they slept. When they weren't looking, when they slept, that was the only time Jaime could be their father. Her brother watched them with silent fascination, sometimes it dawned even on the Kingslayer just what he created.

But sleep never came for her. She lay awake thinking, remembering a day she never wanted to. She hadn't thought about it in years, and had tried to lock it away in her memory. But for the last month every day they rode for Winterfell when she slept she could hear a new born baby crying loudly, a girl sobbing desperately as they pried him from her arms, the shrill screeching for her brother to stop them from taking the child. The dreams always ended with the back of a man she once loved walking away with a squealing babe in his arms.

The hall was empty, well mostly empty. She had a hard glare as she passed a bench where her little brother Tryion Lannister lay cradling a shaggy, black and white bitch. The dwarf moaned a chuckle drunkenly in his sleep as the dog licked the chicken grease off his face. She gave a disgusted scoff and pulled her supple fur coat closer around her in the shadowy room, her slippers made a soft scraping sound in the quiet hall.

"Lyanna …"

The name made her stop on a dime. The way it had seventeen years ago in silken sheets.

"Lya …"

Cersei turned her head toward the table in the back of the hall near the large double doors made of strong Iron wood. She didn't know why she followed the moaning. Stopping in the space between benches she found King Robert Baratheon lying flat on the table, face up. He was as naked, as big, and as hairy as a skewered wild boar. As she wrinkled her nose she thought he definitely smelled like one.

"Lyanna!" He called aloud, his voice echoing just slightly in the hall, loud enough to be heard, but not enough to wake the castle, nor the drunken stragglers. Watching the pathetic waste of a man in front of her that was looking half wild, Cersei remembered their wedding night.

It was similar to that night in Winterfell. Robert was drinking at every toast at their feast, blustering about the battles he fought. He was acting like he had won the war single handedly. Everyone knew it wasn't true, Cersei had stood on a terrace in her silken dressing gown that very morning, standing level with a mounted and armored Eddard Stark. His men said no words when she leaned over the balcony and placed one last kiss on his lips before he rode off to win Robert's War. They would never see each other again she had thought.

When they were in bed together Robert wasn't the fierce handsome man in the Sept of Baelor. The new king was drunk and aggressive. He wanted to pour wine on her, she didn't like that; she was his wife, not one of his whores. Cersei imagined a gentler time as she undressed for bed, her back to him. She thought of Ned Stark in that moment, how gentle his touches and kisses where on her smooth, naked body. However Robert wouldn't wait, he turned her around and ripped her beautiful dress to pieces; throwing her naked to the bed. She didn't see much of a choice when he poured his "Arbor gold, on his golden bride" He had smeared it all over her belly with his face. The rest of that night was two things she remembered well, the smell of wine on his dripping beard and a name.

"Lyanna …"

Cersei didn't know how or when she got it, but she was holding Tryion's dragon-boned dagger, looming over her drunken husband as he lay blacked out on the table. Her anger was out of control. The Queen's vision was reddened like blood, the black rage of a life wasted, a life that should have happened, and a life never known pounded in her head. She blamed him, blamed Lyanna Stark, but most of all she blamed Eddard Stark for choosing Catelyn over her.

The misty, dark steel glinted in the light of the glowing coals in the low burning brazier. Her knuckles were white; clinging to the dragon bone hilt as tight as she never knew she could. She raised it high in the air, her breath short, and her arms trembling. It was ready to come down, to cut through soft fat over and over again. She was part Kingslayer, why not become full Kingslayer? But looking down at that hairy face, the closed eyes, Cersei realized that this wasn't the death that befitted her pig. It wasn't his time just yet; things were coming to a head. Shaking with pent up fury, it was a true struggle, a conflict not to end it all right there.

As she dropped the dagger on the floor with a clank, Cersei's fury was eating her alive. She had never been so angry in her entire life; she felt like she was going to burst, her blood boiling, and her bones buckling in fury. Suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't see. There was no air in the hall, like she was trapped. Her entire life she described herself like a great lioness, caged in a mummer's circus., but now she felt like she could see the cage around her. The anger, the hatred, it all didn't matter because there was nothing she could do trapped behind the bars of her sex.

She ran for the doors before she even knew what she was doing. She didn't know where she was going, she just had to leave, had to get out, before the reality crushed her. It was a cold, starless night in the Winterfell yard. Even though there wasn't snow falling, Cersei could see the presence of frost on the roofs of the stables and blacksmith's hut, and every window.

The cold air stung her cheeks and nose, like a sting of dozens of honey flies. Her throat tightened till it hurt, her lungs felt on fire. She gasped and her blind rage was still on her, but there wasn't anything she could do to get rid of it. No outlet she could think of to exercise the hatred in her soul.

"Clank!"

"Fump!"

"FUMP!"

The sound of metal on metal, and metal on padding echoed through the empty yard. The blows were powerful and angry, a beat that Cersei felt in her heart, a silent drum cadence to her rage's march. It was all one in the same.

She walked across the frigid open space briskly as the angry noises continued. She thought that her feet would suffer in her soft slippers, walking through the muck of the yard. But she found that the ground was frozen solid and crunched like grass underneath her.

The sources of the sounds were coming from a fenced-off station in the middle of the yard where a youth in leathers attacked a practice dummy in armor. As Cersei watched she saw that it wasn't practice at all, it was an angry and helpless assault of frustration. It was like he was attracting her, the blows, the anger; it all matched how she was feeling. With each strike, each ring of the sword on padding, she felt in tune with him. She closed her eyes and felt the sensation of striking the dummy.

"_Harder" _

She squeezed her eyelids and could feel the adrenaline rush inside her with each clank and thud. Her arm burned as if it was her striking, her knuckles white clenching her fists as if the blade was inside queen's hand.

"_Harder!" _

THUNK!

THUNK!

"Harder"

FLUNK!

FLUNK!

FLUNK!

"Harder!"

THUNK!

THUMP!

"HARDER!"

PFFMP!

There was a ripping noise that was followed by a heavy metallic thunk. Cersei gave an involuntary shudder and held her breath. There was a sliding collapse and a loud clatter of wood and padding that fell over the small fence around the straw covered practice area.

With a heavy shaky sigh, Cersei blew out the fire blazing in her heart. Numbness settled like all of her insides were covered with third degree burns. She took three deep breaths of the northern air and slowly blew them out, before she opened her eyes.

In front of her she saw the youth keeled over, hands gripping his knees, and breathing hard. He had thick black curls that fell over his eyes, next to him his sword was stuck in the ground. Watching the young man, Cersei's eyes widened in shock and maybe in a true moment of disbelief. It was like looking at a ghost when he finally stood straight and found her face. For one second of madness she thought that she was locked with the same boy who rubbed his stubble when he was amused by something. But above all else she remembered how safe she felt in his arms when they snuggled under the sheets staring out the sheer drapes at the sun rising over King's Landing all those years ago.

She froze, her mouth open, unable to rationalize what she was seeing. Then, like a cold punch in her heart she suddenly found that those curls were not of Stark seed and the look, the fierceness in his grey eyes.

_He was black of hair like a Baratheon, there was strength in him like a Lannister, but it was the eyes … King Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the First Men and the Andals did not have gray eyes. Cersei Lannister held the baby to her breast and rocked him back and forth. He made little noises that made her smile, even as it seemed both mother and baby were in peril. He was so little in her arms that it was hard to believe she had carried him all these months. She couldn't stop staring at him even when she was being spoken to. _

"_Your Grace … I don't know what to tell you." _

"_Tell me that you can fix this …" She looked up at the stern yet kindly old man. _

_Jon Arryn sighed and placed his hands behind back. "I don't know if I can … things are very heated, Your Grace. If Robert found out that Ned bedded his wife the night before …" _

_Cersei clenched her jaw. "He didn't know that I was going to be his wife!" She replied angrily with a teenage petulance._

_The old man sighed again. "There hasn't been news of Ned for weeks and if Robert finds out about this …" He paused like a worried father. "Ned is far from home with an angry King and Tully's between him." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully._

_Feeling the tension in the room the little baby fussed. Cersei rocked him gently, kissing his head and found old Jon watching the child and mother sadly. The girl held the baby snuggly placing her head against his, she was scared. She had seen all the Hills in Lannisport, the bastards, and how her family looked down on all of them. Cersei looked down on all of them too when she was girl. Now she had one in her arms carrying her blood and strength in him. She thought of running back to the Rock to hide inside the mountain fortress with her child, and let Robert Baratheon break himself against it. But her father wouldn't hide her; Tywin Lannister would take her beautiful little baby and throw him from the wall into the ocean. _

"_You're a Lannister, you sully our name with each breath this bastard takes" She could hear him clearly. _

_She thought of Jaime. It was an assurance once that her brother would defend her from Robert Baratheon's wrath. Jaime would slay the oaf if tried to touch her and the child. But now she didn't believe he would when she showed him the child. Her brother had steeled himself when he learned she was with child, he knew he would have to endure her pregnancies with another man's children. But when he saw the Stark gray in her boy's eyes he left angrily, a betrayed man. She hadn't seen him since. _

_Old Jon seemed to see the fear in her eyes because he gave a deep and sympathetic sigh. "Robert is out hunting … he won't be back for a fortnight." He announced walking toward her window. "There might be an opportunity that will present itself to me, your grace." He spoke tiredly. _

"_It's all I ask for, my lord." She said timidly, she was scared for her and her baby. Without Jaime and the power of house Lannister behind her, the young beauty felt naked and alone. _

_The kindly old man came to her bed side and watched the baby in her arms with a smile. "I've known Ned since he was eight years of age. He's always the son I never had and always wanted. The same goes for Robert, as thick headed he is. But your child carries Ned's blood and because of that there is nothing I won't do to protect him." He placed a hand on Cersei's shoulder._

"Did you say something … Your Grace?"

The boy was being polite and Cersei knew it. She had been screaming at him to hit the dummy harder. He was still breathing hard and so was she.

"No …" She lied quietly with an uneasy smile. The boy blinked at her, but graciously accepted her answer; he didn't push her though she was sure half the castle had heard her.

They stared at each other for more than a minute. He was expecting her to say something, to dismiss him, to chastise him. If he only knew that all she wanted to do was to kiss him and hold him in her arms, to brush her fingers through the hair she gave him.

"If I woke you …"

"What troubles you tonight, Jon?" She heard herself ask the young man.

He seemed stricken when heard his name, he gaped at her with his mouth open. She walked past him and pulled his sword out of the ground, she couldn't bear to look at him. Those searching Stark eyes would most likely see right through her.

"You know my name?" He asked, not hiding his surprise.

Cersei lifted the sword and examined the blade closely. "Why shouldn't I? I gave it to you." She put on a mask of classic Lannister arrogance.

Jon Snow watched her with suspicious eyes of confusion. It was obvious he was in a defensive silence. He was unsure if she was mocking him or if she was truly telling him the truth. A part of the queen wanted him to believe both fully, and yet neither one for his own safety.

Cersei had seen the letter in Jon Arryn's office as she was clearing away his belongings after Lysa Arryn had fled in the night. Cersei remembered her flushed faced and the pounding of her heart when she came across a recent letter he had written, bound for Winterfell. He had wanted Ned to come down to King's Landing and bring "The Boy" with him. Cersei couldn't imagine how close everything had come to unraveling right in front of her. She didn't want to know what she would do to protect her children. Would she kill one to protect another?

Watching Jon, she circled him slowly taking in what she missed grow in seventeen years. "Your father had brought you to the Red Keep on his return to the North … with your dead aunt." Cersei choked on the name and took a moment to steady herself before before she continued. "I came to visit you as the King and your father mourned her. I was the first woman who ever held you … did you know that?" She asked Jon.

The boy didn't follow her; he looked preoccupied listening to her silently. "No, I didn't." He answered quietly.

"When they told me that you didn't have a name I took it upon myself to give one to you. When your father returned for you, I told him that Jon was your name … He didn't fight me on it." She smiled as she brandished his sword with a few swings, enjoying the power the weapon gave her.

Jon stood silently watching the frozen yard in deep thought. For a nervous moment Cersei feared that the boy was putting it together in his head. She moved quickly to make sure it didn't happen.

"Do you like it?" She asked.

With a sober flick of gray he tracked her. "I'm sorry …?" He trailed off.

"The name, do you like it?" She asked again.

He still only vaguely heard her. "Yes … my father's mentor was Jon Arryn … He was a good and honorable man. I hope to carry it with as much gallantry for him and …" He trailed off again but he was looking her straight in the eye. "For you"

The words, and the way it was spoken took her breath away. Cersei Lannister's face twisted in emotional pain and slowly she reached out and touched the boy's clean shaven face. Her heart felt like someone was twisting a dirk inside it. He watched her with wide eyes, she could tell no one touched his face like this before, with so much feeling. He looked scared to move, yet it was as if he never wanted her to remove the hand either. His cheek was smooth and clean, he had her skin she thought.

She wanted to take him in her arms and hold him. Wanted to nuzzle his black hair like she used to, but now wasn't the time. There were too many things going on right now for her to let her guard down enough to openly love him the way she was always meant to. He was the only one of her children that was completely out of danger. Her soft green eyes hardened and she removed her hand confidently. Jon's gray eyes watched her in anticipation. She shuddered a misty shallow breath and lifted the sword.

"This is shit steel." She said with an arrogant bluntness, showing him the sword. "When you're done playing at sword fighting and want a real sword … come find me." She tossed the blade at his feet and walked away.

"_Stay safe, my love …"_

Crunching over the frozen ground she could feel eyes on her. They weren't Jon's though; it was a familiar gaze that made her heart thump harder. She stopped and looked up high into the towers of the gray fortress of House Stark. Just above the keep she saw a naked man looking down on her from a balcony. His stone gray eyes seemed to have watched the entire exchange with Jon. After a wordless beat he seemed to have been called away and he disappeared out of sight.

She never looked back as she dashed back to her chamber. With a loud squeal the door was thrown open and with an even louder slam she closed it. Her back was up against the door when she thumped her head against the iron wood. Cersei sputtered a breath and closed her eyes.

_Green eyes opened in the middle of the night as Cersei lay in between smooth sheets of silk that matched the small clothes she slept in. There were boot scuffles on the floor of her bed chamber approaching her. She slowly panicked upon hearing them get closer. She turned to the baby nuzzled peacefully against her naked pale chest. What would she do if it was Robert returned from the hunt? She didn't know what she would say when the King would take the baby in his big hands and find his best friends eyes looking at him. _

_But when her mattress dipped and a hand rubbed her arm gently she knew that it wasn't Robert Baratheon. He was never this gentle and yet Jaime had softer hands. Cersei turned to find another pair of gray eyes watching the sleeping baby. _

"_Ned …" She whispered in hope. When the man responded to the name, a sense of relief spread throughout her body and soul. Wordlessly she reached out a hand and cupped soft boyish stubble and sniffled. But the man didn't respond, though she could tell that his eyes wanted too. _

_She craned her head up to see that he wasn't alone either. Jon Arryn stood inside at the foot of her bed and in the doorway the spider Lord Varys had his arms folded inside the sleeves of his large, silver satin robe._

"_Ned?" She asked the young knight, but he didn't responded, simply placed his hand on the head of the baby's head. The little wibble he made showed that their son responded to his father's touch even in his sleep. Despite the late night confusion it made Cersei smile to see it. _

"_There isn't much time …" Varys spoke to everyone but Cersei in a voice that she could only guess he had constantly reminded them over and over again. She didn't like the way that Varys had spoken to them and she didn't like the way that old Jon was looking at her. Ned was cold as a block of ice as he refused to meet her gaze no matter what she did. _

"_What's going on?" she asked. She didn't like being kept in the dark about things. With all their secret looks and unspoken convictions it made Cersei scared like she was somehow at their mercy. _

_Varys looked out the door a moment before coming inside. "Forgive me, your grace …" He shut the door. "I believe we have found a solution to your …" He looked at the baby. "Little problem" He finished with a simpering undertone. _

_She turned to Ned with a thankful smile. "Thank the gods …" she sighed. But Ned said no words or showed no emotion to the announcement. _

_Old Jon shifted his boots. "It would seem that the night before your wedding … Robert had impregnated a girl he had been using as a bed warmer. She died in child birth and …" He paused mournfully. "It would seem the boy will not make it as well." He finished sadly. _

_There was a deep anger at the thought of Robert producing another bastard. But she swallowed it knowing that it might prove to help her get out of her situation. "I see …" She said respectfully of the whore that Robert tossed away like the garbage she was. _

"_Robert has returned from his hunt …" the master of whispers relayed to her gentle as a promise. The news hit Cersei like a ton of bricks; she turned to Ned then back to the older men with wide green eyes._

"_He mourns the death of the Lady Lyanna … and he will be distraught." Varys said. Cersei turned to Ned once again and for once didn't think of the woman who had wronged her on the queens wedding night, but instead looked to the dead girl's brother. He looked so sad that she had wanted to take him in her arms, if only for a moment. _

"_It'll be all the time we need to switch the children." Jon said quietly. _

"_Switch?" It hadn't occurred to her yet what that would mean for her baby. "I don't …" She trailed off looking at the faces. _

"_Yes …" Varys cut in. "We believe in his grief his grace will not know the difference between infants." He nodded. _

_Cersei looked down at her snoozing black-haired beauty. "But what about my baby?" She asked unconsciously wrapping her arms around the tiny body. _

_Jon and Varys looked at each other for a moment and seemed to be baffled for words, before they turned back to Cersei. _

"_He's coming north with me." It was the first time that Eddard had spoken since he came into the room. His voice was hard and cold, as if he wanted to be thousands of leagues away. She looked down at the baby and then back up at the assembly of lords. _

"_But …" She stopped and then she was stricken with horror. "When will I see him again?" She asked before she could stop herself, she knew the answer. _

_There was a deep silence in the room. "Your grace … for the sake of the realm, which has just been unified … it would be too dangerous if you kept him near you." Varys said gently. _

_Her mouth was open. Her chest was on fire and she suddenly felt so numb that she lost where she was. _

"_No!" Someone screamed. But who was it? _

"_No! you can't have him!" She heard again. _

"_Your grace it's not safe …" _

"_He's mine! I won't leave him!" _

_She wasn't sure when but suddenly she was being restrained as Jon and Ned tried to pry her arms apart. She was screaming, thrashing, feeling her grip loosen on the scared infant that was bawling loudly at the noise. _

"_Not the baby!" She begged feeling her slender muscles losing their strength to arms meant for the field of battle. Little arms clutched to the silk that covered her breasts only momentarily before he was lost forever. _

_The air was cold on her milky skin where a warm babe wrapped snuggly in a bundling blanket once slept. She reached for the screaming little black-haired boy. She saw him reaching for her as Ned took him in his arms snuggly, safely. The Northman turned and looked at Cersei who got on her knees trying to chase after him, but she was restrained by old Jon, half holding her sympathetically. _

"_JON!" She screamed after the child. Eddard Stark watched her with desperate sad eyes before he looked down at the crying boy. He repeated the name and pressed him to his chest as if he was the most precious thing he had ever had. He looked like he had wanted to say something to her, to apologize, to kiss comforts against her ear, but he didn't. Quietly he turned and began to walk away._

"_No Ned! Don't take my baby!" She screamed after him. _

_The door to her bed chamber flew open and a figure walked in slowly. He was young and beautiful with golden locks and shined armor, donned in a white cape. His face was so familiar to the girl that it was as if she was looking into a reflection. Seeing all the men in his sister's room, Jaime Lannister looked greatly confused. _

_Cersei seemed baffled that the boy had come to her since she hadn't seen him in weeks and yet now there he stood. His face was alert and determined when he spotted the lords. She had expected to see a sword in hand, but surprisingly it was polished toy knight that she recognized from their childhood. The figure had been her brother's favorite since she could remember, so much so that even now he kept it in his saddle bag. But why he had it or what he had planned to do with it before this moment she couldn't say. _

"_Jaime, stop them!" She screeched shrilly. _

_For a brash moment the young knight was reaching for his sword, but Varys stepped forward and placed his powdered hand on Jaime's shoulder and whispered something in a low voice. The young man's face flashed with rage, grinding his teeth, but slowly he removed his hand from the hilt of his sword. _

"_No, Jaime stop him … he's taking Jon!" She screamed at the action. _

_The lion's heir locked eyes with the silent wolf as he held the babe in his arms. Eddard's cold gray eyes wandered down to the polished and repainted toy knight mounted on his faithful stead. Jaime looked down at the toy quietly. Slowly he lifted his arm and offered it to Ned staring sorrowfully at the sobbing baby. Ned Stark took the toy, studying it for a moment before he strode out of the room._

_The teenage girl broke free from the old man's grip and sprinted after the only man she had ever loved. Jaime stepped in her way and caught her. His armor was cold against her half naked body. She screamed and fought him. She punched and slapped her twin, raking her nails against his cheek, but after a while her animal screams turned to sobs, and her fierce battling to limp defeat. She slid to the polished floor sobbing, Jaime followed, cradling her. Soon it was just the two of them alone, unmoving. _

_The way she realized it should always be. _


	3. In the Air Tonight

**In the Air Tonight**

There was an eerie silence that crept not just through the Tower of the Hand, but through the entire red colored fortress and the city that surrounded it. There was no wind, no heat, no cold. One couldn't gauge the climate, because it wasn't uncomfortable weather … and yet it was uncomfortable, because there wasn't a word for it.

When dusk darkened a fog rolling off the Black Water on the autumn evening slowly wandered into the capital like a blind old hound smelling food down the city street. Cautiously, slowly, the thick blanket of black made its way down the streets, staying low to the ground like a predatory cat, stalking its prey.

"_Something isn't right." _

Eddard Stark was alone in his office, dozens of candles surrounded him. The light flickered in the dark, the hot wax hissing as it hit the floor. The Hand slumped in his chair, arm propped on the rest, hand in a fist underneath his nose. Before him sat the book of genealogy to the great houses of Westeros, on top the knife meant for Bran's throat, that scarred his wife, his feisty little scraper Cat's hand.

It was the first time in months that he felt safe enough to take a moment to think. So many nights spent arranging this, securing that, making sure the girls weren't being stalked by a chamber maid with a knife in her cleavage, waiting for a queen's word. The threat of House Lannister to his family seemed a foregone conclusion.

He flicked brooding dark eyes to the open letter, delivered personally to him by some weasel-faced Frey boy, claiming to be Robb's squire.

It recounted how Jaime Lannister, the fool, once he had gotten word that Cersei was a prisoner, had withdrawn his men in poor order from Riverrun to rescue her. Now Robb was celebrating his victory at the Ruby Forward, catching Jaime Lannister, with his back to the River trying to cross without a rear guard. It seemed only yesterday Robb was curled up under the furs with Catelyn planting kisses on her swollen belly, waiting for Sansa to come into the world.

With Jaime a captive of Robb's in the Riverlands, Tryion a captive of Catelyn's in the Vale, Cersei here, and Renly marching west with the combined strength of Tyrell and Baratheon, Tywin Lannister has no choice but to negotiate and back down.

The Lannister aggression was all but at an end now. But tonight Ned Stark wasn't celebrating the return of stability and the end of the plotting that had threatened his family. Tonight Lord Eddard was thinking about the bile in his stomach at what had happened.

"_When you play the game of thrones … you win or you die, there is no middle ground." _

Varys had told him how Cersei had planned to kill Robert. He told him about a sack of wine, potent with alcohol, and the great boar of the Kingswood. It was simple and brilliant style of backstabbing that Eddard could only expect from the golden haired queen. No one would've thought twice about the boar goring the king. When he died who would believe Eddard that Joffery wasn't Robert's son? It would look as if Eddard was just trying to grab power for himself. What could anyone do to stop the Lannister's once Robert was dead?

When he closed his eyes he could still hear Varys chuckle over his wine. "A wronged common boy slayed a lion." He had toasted Ned, and his torturous attention to each squabble brought before the Iron Throne while Robert fucked around, Renly went shopping, Pycelle slept, and Littlefinger … was being himself.

A boy of twelve approached the throne a week before Robert's hunting trip during his time to talk. His sister had been a maid inside the keep, a comely girl who helped a Septa in the employment of the crown. The boy had claimed that the Septa would ask the girl to sing for her, and that the holy woman would keep the girl long into the night. He had thought they were friends, and now she hadn't been home in a few days. Ned had told him that maybe she just left, but the boy had said that he would always wait for her to come home through the only exit maids were allowed to go through. Ned had allowed the boy to look for her with the assistants of the Winterfell personal guard. They had found the girl naked, hands tied to the Septa's bedposts traumatized and broken. Ned took the Septa's head personally and as compensation for the wrong, he allowed the boy special permission to hunt in the Kingswood. The boy had sent Ned a helping of the boar he killed in gratitude for his compassion and righteous pursuit of justice for his older sister. Ned had sent the boy six hundred dragons and ordered Littlefinger to find the siblings apartments somewhere clean and nice … the boy's thrust had saved the king after all.

He dropped his head and closed his eyes remembering the night that Robert returned. The King had been in a dark mood when Ned came to him. He allowed his old friend to do all the things that he usually did when coming from a bad hunting trip. Rant, cuss, drink himself into nostalgia. It had been late into the night, the two of them sitting in his solar, wine in their hands.

"_Come now, Ned, you craven stick, what the fuck do you want to tell me." _

"_What's that?" _

"_You think that I don't see that look on your ugly face … the same one that you had when you came back from Dorne with Lyanna." _

"_You're Grace …" _

"_Damn it, Ned, you call me that again after mentioning Lyanna, I'll make sure Cat will have to spoon feed you for the rest of your fucking miserable life. Now what is it?" _

Ned told him, about old Jon and the bastards. He showed him the book and what Cersei had told him. In all honesty he thought his friend would fight him, yell at him, accuse him of being a liar. But, as he expanded his tale of investigation, explaining the twin's incestuous past, Robert just sat and stared out the window, the way it had been when Ned told him of the duel at The Tower in the Princes Pass in Dorne, and his failed rescue of Lyanna. When it was over, Robert looked at his cup of wine, made a motion to drink it, but oddly stopped himself. The King suddenly looked sober, more sober than he had since they were children in the Erie. It seemed like a long time before Robert Baratheon did anything but look into the liquid.

"_Thank You, Brother." _

Ned could still smell the fruity scent as Robert poured the alcohol on the ground, with a heavy spilling thud on the tile, before he threw the cup out the window and into the ocean. Quietly, the king walked out of the solar and into the dusk of the coming night.

There was no moon that night, no stars, it was black, and it seemed no light could penetrate the darkness, much like tonight. Eddard didn't want to police whatever was going to happen next, even when the reports came of fighting outside between the gold cloaks and Lannister household guards. He ate with the girls and tried to shut out all of the violence going on by the docks. He tried get absorbed in Arya's story about "Dance Class" and tried to smile, tried to laugh about the mean old tom with a face like a Weirwood. However, it was hard when he looked at Sansa. The Girl had been crying, according to the septa, she had gone to see Joffery and the queen the other day and when she had returned she locked herself in her room and didn't want to talk to anyone.

Somehow Sansa knew something bad was going on outside when plumes of smoke could be seen from the dockyards, and a crimson and gold tint touched the night sky. After dinner, Ned forced Arya and Sansa to sleep in his bed, while he sat in a chair by them, Ice in his lap. He doubled the guard all that night around the Stark buildings in the castle.

It had been a week since then, and he had heard nothing from Robert, and nothing of the queen other than her and the children had been captured, and imprisoned. Ned seemed content with Robert's wishes to "Run the war" He knew that meant fighting Tywin and Jaime. That task was mostly done, and now as night settled he thought about what he had done in the name of Justice and Honor.

But, every night after the sun went down, when it was still and quiet, Eddard thought of _her_, thought of the girl who moaned so softly when you stroked her pale skin, whose eyes widened when you were inside of her, finding a place that brought her so much pleasure that she just watched you, waiting to see what came next.

"Damn you …" Ned buried his face in his hands. "Damn you, why didn't you run?" He growled tiredly. He could see those bright green eyes smile, her skin glimmering in the dawn, her hands twirled his mats of long dark hair, while he nuzzled her navel with his nose.

"Why didn't you run?"

His voice was sorrowful and defeated, his question fading into the dark, answerless.

CLUNK!

His door swung open with a heavy bang and boots rushed toward him, shadowy figures caught in a purgatory of darkness between the torchlight of the hall and candle light of the office.

"LORD STARK!"

The voice was familiar, and when he heard the alarm in it, Ned took his cane quickly and stood with a loud scrape of his chair. An older man with short feathered hair of white, and crystal blue eyes that came into view before he could even see the rest of him. His armor was golden, interlaid with white, and covered in blood.

"Ser Barristan!" Ned called in confusion.

The old man was puffing and breathless. Ned could smell the sweat on him, droplets like ice on his skin. Where ever he came from he must have been running, a hard task even for a young man in such armor and fog outside. Ned looked behind him to see, Fat Tom, Harwin, and two more northern soldiers standing behind the old knight, tense hands on swords after all the bloodshed.

"The King … The King!" Was all he could say.

Ned's heart leapt to his throat and for a moment the world froze, thousands of things flashed through his mind. Lannister cutthroats, or he fell down the steps, the dumb jackhole.

"Take me to him!" He commanded, limping slowly around his desk, taking his sword belt from a side table. Ser Barristan nodded, weariness was not as important as whatever had happened. The Hand's progress was slow getting to the door, but when he did, he turned to Fat Tom.

"Go wake the boys up!" He ordered. "I want a company of swordsman waiting for us when we get to the Tower's entrance."

"Yes m'lord!"

"Also double the guard on the girls rooms, Keep it tight!" He didn't give the old guard a chance to answer, motioning him away.

All exited the room.

* * *

><p>The old knight led them through the dark, twisting passages of the castle. Fog swirled around their knees as they made their way across the expansive, yet barren, yard of the Red Keep. The Castle seemed so empty these last couple of days, after the massacre of the Lannister soldier's, household knights, and even the queen's hand maidens.<p>

Up and up they went, the blanket of dense fog disappearing as they went up the steps of an obscure tower just outside of the battlements, it's foundations in the river. Despite the pitch black of the night, everyone could hear the roar of water clashing with rocks just below them. Ned suddenly realized that this was the infamous Maegor's Tower, meant for royal prisoners, and hostages of high birth. Something dark stirred in The Hand as he looked at the back of the Lord Commander's feathered white locks.

Ned's leg was aching badly, and he was sweating profusely by the time they reached the top of the long tower. Several times he had thought of asking for a moment to catch his breath, and to settle the throbbing in his wounded leg before continuing, but all he had to do was look in Barristan's eyes and know that there couldn't be a moment to waste. Despite Ned asking the knight what was going on, he couldn't answer, he would just look at Ned, mouth hanging open, before he would shake his head and quicken his pace. The Hand knew all the stories of the old Kingsguardsmen and he knew he had seen so many terrible things in his years of service, battlefields and murders. But it scared Eddard Stark to see such a veteran shocked from words.

With the Help of several of his swordsmen, Ned finally reached the top floor, of the decrepit, ruined tower. Opening a door, he found the remaining five Kingsguard knights standing in front of the cell door. It was all over their faces, a distant look of something disconnected, disturbed visions playing in their brains, haunting their very souls.

"Where?" Ned panted, leaning heavily on his cane, his right hand pushing down on the hilt of his sword as he looked around. Each face, found the Hand with downcast eyes, some such as loyal Arys Oakheart finding his appearance like that of a small child in trouble finding an adult to help him make everything better. Before Ser Barristan could point, everyone in the Hand's presence stepped aside from the lone door, heavy and rotted with thick rusted bars at the top. The only sound that could be heard was the scrape of boots against stone and the clicks of a cane. Ned Labored toward the door, slowly the Kingsguard shrinking away.

"Stay." Ned ordered his men, as well as everyone else. But when he approached the door, he heard the slightest hints of muffled noise from the bars above. The cell door was eight feet tall and thick, made of two hundred year old pine wood, from when the area was nothing but a wooded collection of hills. But even then he could smell it from the other side of the door, the scent of shit, and iron.

Death.

"Ser Barristan…" Ned didn't say another word, motioning to the knight. The man took a deep breath and walked to the door and grasped the handle, while Ned clutched his sword. Taking a moment to steady himself, Ned nodded. The door made a loud squeak of rusted hinges nearly devoured by rot.

The smell from inside the cell, was like the overwhelming aroma of something of your past that you had forgotten, and for a moment it was like the first time you've smelled it. Memories of battlefields, Stony Sept, The Trident, Storms End, and …

"_Promise me, Ned!" _

The scent of death staved off Eddard Stark for a moment, memories of reaching the top of a tower much like this one entered his mind. He would give anything not to relive that evening, to relive that moment of his life all over again.

"_Can a man be brave when he's scared?" _

"_Yes, Bran … that's the only time a man can be brave." _

He let out a shuttered breath, closing his eyes, centering his emotions into one and locking it away in his mind. He moved into the dimly lit cell.

The stone room was large enough to be small apartments, it had one bed with a mattress of straw, and the floor was carpeted with dirty rushes. A candle was lit on a rotted nightstand, and a shadow occupied the seat against the wall near the foot of the bed.

The first thing the Lord of Winterfell noticed was a naked teenage boy with long matted golden hair, and a pretty face of a maiden's fancy lying flat on the floor. He had peach colored boyish stubble, and a crater where his chest had been caved in. Blood was spewing out of his mouth and bowels, pooling around Lancel Lannister's body.

Ned did his best to avoid the corpse of the King's former squire and enter the room that reeked of stale blood and post mortem excrement. The soft whimper of frightened children caught his ears. Dark, horrified eyes found the mass of two children huddled together in a corner on the floor. Myrcella was in soot-covered, silken small clothes, and was cuddled protectively against a young Tommen, clothed only in a long shirt. He was sobbing quietly, his face buried into his sister's chest. The princess was hiding her face in her brother's dirty golden locks. They were being as silent as possible for fear that they would be next if they were heard.

Walking further into the room, Ned saw the familiar glimmer of pale skin. He found the golden haired beauty of his nightmares and memories sitting on the foot of the hay bed, naked, disconnected. Her golden hair was disheveled, and there was blood on her hands, and her thighs glinted in the dark from the seed on them.

"I always thought that he was a wimp …"

The voice was dark and growled, like some animal after a feast, or some poet contemplating his life. The voice was nothing like Ned had heard before, and yet it was a voice he knew so well; he felt his life shrink out of him slowly.

"It took me three swings … He was screaming for her … I hit him in the back, and the little abomination kept going. So I busted his knee … hobbled to the bed." The voice continued.

Ned turned his attention the straw bed next to an empty Cersei, who stared at her children, but in truth saw nothing. There was a crumpled body on the other side of the bed, naked and deformed, blood was gushing from the caved in skull.

"Most shit themselves after they die. But that little monster shit himself before he died …" There was a bear like laugh, as if he had just told a funny story. "He … He called me daddy, the little bastard, called me … ME! DADDY!" He roared almost insanely.

It took a moment to all synch in, to comprehend what had happened in here … to know that the shell in that bed, bloodied and soiled was once a boy, a child, engaged to his daughter. Sansa used to talk endlessly about the boy.

"_I don't want someone brave, Gentle, and Strong … I want him." _

He could hear her. He was never gentle, or brave, the Lannister boy. But Ned saw the trail of blood and shit that led back to the bed. It had took three strikes of a Warhammer to kill him, that was strength, for a child ….

A child …

"Ser Barristan, Ser Balon!" Eddard Stark's voice was like a snap of a whip. He never turned even when he heard the clanking of armor behind him. He could hear Balon Swann gag at the sight. For humanities sake he allowed Ser Balon to compose himself.

"I want you to take the children outside, now." There was darkness in his voice, a madness strangling self-blame and anger over the murders. Both knights took several steps.

"Who in the seven hells do you think you serve? Did I command you to do that?" The booming voice stopped their momentum and caused Tommen and Myrcella to cuddle deeper together with scared whimpers.

Balon Swann took a step back and retreated to the door, behind Ned. But Barristan the Bold stood his ground, turning his crystal gaze toward the bloodied body of the once-thought heir of the Seven Kingdoms, then the queen whose shocked green eyes kept a sharp watch of her children. He looked at the blood on her hands, and her molested form.

Tommen and Myrcella both clutched to the Lord Commander when he picked them up, as if they were survivors of a ship wreck and he was a life saver. He wordlessly walked out of the room each child in an arm. The door closed with a clank and suddenly it was Cersei, Eddard, the bodies, and the Shadow in the room.

Ned took a moment to resettle himself, to find a coherent way to begin to comprehend how this could've happened again.

"You damn fool …"was all Ned could find the words for, turning shocked, disbelieving eyes toward the shadow who still had a hand clasped to the queen's thigh as if she was his, and would not leave. "What have you done?" He looked at all before him.

"Justice." The voice replied with a bear's inflection of vengeance.

The very word raised bile from inside Ned's stomach, and burned his esophagus. He made a noise of angry disgust in his throat, and shook his head menacingly.

"This isn't Justice, ROBERT! This is murder!" He grinded his teeth in rage at what he saw, and more to the point how it seemed almost natural for the King to sit in the pools of blood. Old feelings from the rebellion and the anger and hatred for how it ended filled him again.

"MURDER!" Robert made it sound like a curse. "THIS IS WAR!" He roared. Cersei barely flinched even with the voice in her ear.

Ned took an aggressive step forward as if he wanted to ring the fat man's neck. "War? War is fought by men on a field of battle! Not by naked children pulled from their mother's embrace and hammered at till they die like some pig at the slaughter!" Ned hissed.

"They're traitor's seed!"

"They're children!" Ned clashed forgetting everything about himself and station. "They had no say coming into this world, you damned monster!" He roared back.

"MONSTER!" There was a low growl at the end of the word. "Is that what I am?" He grabbed Cersei and twisted her till she was facing Ned, showing her naked body, covered in bruises. "This one, fucked her brother for years! Sitting in her high seat judging the rest of us, while the entire Lannister household used her ass as a cum deposit, and I'm the monster!" He jerked Cersei.

Looking down, it occurred for a moment that the minute Robert took Cersei, Ned reached for his sword. Despite the slip he didn't unhand it.

"You murdered a child and raped his mother, before his blood was even cooled enough to be considered warm!" He yelled.

Robert Baratheon just sneered with disdain, turning down to look at the seed crusting on the golden haired captive's buttocks. "I fucked a whore!" he spat and tossed her to the floor like she was a cheap doll from Flea Bottom. "It's what you do with them … not that you'd know." He stood straight.

There was glare sitting darkly on the lord of Winterfell's face observing the robust man, taking a drink of wine. "Tywin Lannister will not sit idly by while you murder his heir!" He was trembling from pent up aggression. "Someone will pay for the murders of his grandson and nephew!" He warned.

A snort of humor shook the King's wire like beard as he finished his drink and tossed the cup against the far wall, shattering it. "Let him!" He bellowed. "I'd like to see him try!" He continued as if the Lord of Castlery Rock could hear him from the Riverlands.

A flame burst in Ned's heart. "You dumb son of bitch!" his teeth chattered. "You don't think about anyone but yourself!" He lashed out. "It's my son and wife out their fighting your war! Just like it was I out there fighting your other two. Do you think Tywin Lannister cares who pays for these murders?" He rubbed his hand against his stubble, worry etching his weary face.

For a moment Robert Baratheon was silent. He slipped back into the shadows, unreadable, unspoken about what he had said. Ned gave a shaky breath and turned back to Cersei who was transfixed on the new blood on her. It occurred to Eddard that she had been thrown into a pool of her own child's blood. The look on her face, strained the lord's soul, she examined her hands distantly, pondering it.

"Your Grace …" the lord said in an even voice. "Come with me." He removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and offered it to her. The woman slowly found Ned's dark eyes, and in them she allowed a single tear to fall. A vulnerability that few knew or saw in her, but maybe there was a reason for it.

She took Ned's hand, and slowly he helped her up till she was pressed against him. He turned to find something to cover her with, but all he could find was the bloody sheet. He felt a slender, soft hand touch his cheek. The force the hand used to return him to green eyes wasn't cruel or desperate; it was gentle and almost comforting.

Her gaze was piercing, unrelenting. He felt as naked as she was, like when they were younger, out in the Godswood. Her hand was resting on his cheek, the blood was in his nostrils, but it wouldn't be the first time and after this night, it wouldn't be the last.

"Is that how it is, is it?" He could hear Robert bellow from where he stood. Ned never thought about how telling the position they were in, the look in their eyes, how deep it was.

Robert walked back into vision. "I got to say Ned, I think I'm almost proud of ya!" His chuckle was grim and reproachful. "I always thought that you were a stiff, grim bastard, and here you are fucking this dumb slut's brains out!" His laugh was mocking.

Like all the other times, Robert had done this, he ignored him. "Your grace, your children need you now. There's nothing in here for you." He consoled as gently as possible.

"Listen to ya! With 'Your Grace' like she's something other than a common back-alley whore!"

"She's still your wife Robert!" Ned snapped. "No matter how you feel about her, you said the vows in front of every soul in the city and the realm! She is your queen still. Give her a moment for the love of the gods!" He shouted back.

"Aye, I said the vows …" He agreed darkly, Ned could tell he was thinking of that day as if it were to be dreaded. Ned thought that maybe it should be, for Robert, Cersei, and the realm.

"Your grace …" He placed a hand on her naked lower back and turned to usher her away, when she made a noise of protest. She spun away from The Hand's arm, taking a step back from the two men.

"Wait …" Her voice was hoarse from screaming and begging in loud sobbing. It was the softest of a whisper as if she were in a room with a sleeping small child. There was something about it that made everything very still. Even Robert's blustering seemed to halt, shouted down by the inflection.

They both watched her step over the mess on the dirty, cold, floor, till she was hovering over the side of the large bed. Below her shadow lay the bloodied broken shell of what used to be her son, naked, and staring back up at her with the only eye his corpse possessed. Wordlessly, without a sound, she took the sheet covered with blood and seed. Her touch was experienced wrapping the motionless body, covering the boy's injuries and nakedness like a mother tucking her small child into bed.

"Sleep peacefully, my sweet prince." Ned heard her whisper, leaning down to kiss what remained of the child's forehead.

Eddard Stark felt the weight of the world, and the sorrows of the queen's family on his heart. He had been the cause of this, he and his damn honor … it had happened again, his nightmares for the last seventeen years. He had been too slow then to save Elia and her children, and now he had been the cause of the murder of innocence, and the rape of a prisoner. He leaned on his cane, and lowered his head in respect.

Cersei took a deep, traumatized breath against her child's forehead before she stood straight. When she turned, her eyes had become as cold and hard as ice. She straightened her back, stiff and rigid as a board. The steps she took toward the door were, graceful, dignified. She did not cringe as she passed Robert Baratheon.

"I didn't say you can leave!" He growled at her.

Cersei did not turn. "You've had your fun, my lord … but now what of my children you have left to me are in need." She retorted coldly, without stopping.

"WHORE!" He was outraged pursuing her a step. "You're my prisoner!" His voice was low and dangerous.

"Yes" She agreed quietly. "I was, wasn't I?" She said thoughtfully, something told Ned she didn't mean her time in the cells. She turned back to the men. "But, since it was Lord Stark who informed you of my alleged secrets and his men I yielded too, I believe I am Lord Stark's prisoner … I go were he says, not you!" She snapped, her face was the same cold, dark mask she had worn since Ned had left her all those years ago- after he had taken Jon.

Both turned to the Lord Hand. Ned took a deep breath, and continued to watch the floor. "The law is the law, Robert …" Staring at the dead children. He couldn't address the man as a king in good conscience for fear of thinking upon who and what he served now.

"DAMN YA!" His voice growled louder. "DAMN BOTH OF YA!" He was now roaring. "Get out!" he snapped viciously, his face sweating and red with rage. "I'll have both of your heads on the city gates, your honorable cock in her mouth!" He followed the two of them.

"Traitors!" He was in Ned's ear now.

The wars he fought, the time away from his family, and him being here. It was all that was running through Eddard Starks mind. He had fought this man's wars, made sure there was peace in the realm again, sewn the wounds made by the Mad King … all out of loyalty to this man, this friend, to this brother. Now after all the years of service, he murders children and Ned's trust … and he was a traitor?

"Enjoy the whore while ya can because …!"

Ned turned suddenly and drove his open hand up in the thick bearded chin of the King, clamping his mouth shut. Like when they were children in the Eyre, Ned's Stark temper got the better of him. Robert's words and actions had hit a flashpoint deep inside.

Hand clamped on his friend's chin, Ned menacingly brought the King's face toward his. "I'm no frightened boy torn from his mother's bosom …" His voice was low and dangerous. "If you want my head, come and take it." His teeth were clenched. The King freed himself with a forearm and took a step back, a dark look of restraint on his face, he never said a word.

Ned found the queen waiting for him. He limped slowly through the cell door, once there he turned back to his friend. "You know where to find me Robert …" He took the door handle. "I'll be waiting." He slammed the cell door with a mighty bang.

Robert Baratheon returned to his seat in the darkness, alone, surrounded by the bodies of those he murdered. He reached for another glass on the small night table, and poured himself some more wine.

* * *

><p>The bedchamber was half lit with candles that burned low as the wee hours of the morning settled on the court of Robert Baratheon. Shadows cast odd shapes on the walls of the large room where Ned Stark watched from the cracked doorway. The breath of the guards at the door was in his ear, and there was a nervousness to it that Ned knew well. He knew it well, because it was on everyone's mind.<p>

Ned had challenged the King hours ago, and if there was one thing that could be chronicled faithfully it was that Robert Baratheon never backed down from a challenge. The Hand cursed his temper; his mother used to call it wolf's blood, everyone in his family had it. Brandon and Lyanna were the worst offenders, all it took was a playful smack, or the wrong word and they flew off the handle faster than anyone had time to defend themselves. All it took was Brandon uttering one heated phrase, demanding a prince's life and he, their father, and thousands of others had died … one simple outburst.

Now years later, all it took was one loss of control, one moment of anger at the inhuman actions of a man in the midst of the madness-of-the-moment. He might have started a chain of actions that could cost him his own life, that of the queens, and the lives of the children sleeping in the bedchamber he was peeking into.

The room was shadowy, and darkening with each passing minute, but he could make out the figures still lumped together, Sansa, tall and sleek, in her sleeping slip. She was buried under the comfort of snug furs, her arms wrapped around the smaller, sleek shadow next to her. Princess Myrcella had been washed thoroughly after they had separated her from Tommen. She had begged for Ser Barristan not to take him, fearing that the boy would be escorted to a new, deeper dungeon cell as the last Lannister heir. But Ned and Barristan had promised her and Cersei that was not their design. Robert would believe that Ned would take the entire family with him to the Tower of the Hand; he would want Tommen dead for sure. It was why the two men decided to hide the boy in the white tower of the Kingsguard in Barristan's quarters till further notice.

Myrcella's breathing, was sporadic, her body shuttering from crying. They had given her a little dream wine mixed with sweet milk in order to calm her down. She clung to Sansa like a true sister. Sansa hadn't been told yet about her beloved Joffrey, Ned knew it would be a hard task. Though the boy was rotten to the core, spoiled, selfish, and cruel, no one should die a death such as that. But, most of all, he knew that Sansa loved him so. Watching his daughter, the way she stroked the younger girl's golden curls, the absent look in her eyes as she held the little girl, Ned could only imagine she already knew. Deep inside there was a fatherly hurt inside him, if he could, he would make this night never happen. He would like nothing better than to return to the supper table, listening to Arya tell her stories about chasing cats, and Syrio's lessons.

Next to the bed he found his youngest girl sitting in a chair by the dying candle light. Her skinny sword was in one hand, an oil cloth in the other. Quietly she cleaned the blade, keeping a watch over the two girls in the bed like a protective lady hawk over her precious eggs. If Mordane was here, she would be throwing a fit over this, but with all that happened in the last few hours, the last few months, Lady or no Lady, Ned would not rob any one of what brought them comfort in this uncertain time.

Slowly, Ned retreated from the door, closing it softly. Both guards turned their heads toward him, he nodded in approval of their job, and confirmed that the girls were fine. He limped up the stairs, a slow process. He was by himself, but he could spare no men when any minute Slynt and the City Watch might burst in and begin a fight.

At the top of the landing, next to his apartment doors, he found a bald fat man waiting for him. His silver robes were almost as audacious as his perfume which the lord could smell half way up.

"Lord Varys …" He grunted, forcing himself up the stairs.

"Do you require help my lord?" The eunuch offered his powdered hands.

Eddard was about to blusteringly say not from him, but he held his tongue. "No, my lord … I can mange." He reached the landing sweating, and panting.

"I do hope your leg is on the mend. A dreadful business with the Lannisters outside poor Baelish's brothel. I'm sure business hasn't been quiet the same, I fear." He said in the sickening simpering voice Ned was starting to get used to.

"Neither has my leg, I fear." He stopped outside his door, where two guards eyed the bald man wearily.

"That much is for certain, leg wounds are quite terrible." He agreed sympathetically.

Eddard frowned. "Had many legs wounds, my lord spider?" He asked with slight flippancy.

A girlish giggle left his lips. "No, oh no my lord … But I am quite a collector of books, the details of combat does turn one's stomach." He sighed.

A rueful grimace marred the northerner's hard face. "Seeing it first hand is quite a sight, I can assure you." He leaned on his cane.

"Yes, I heard of tonight's events." He flipped subjects quickly.

"That wasn't combat." Eddard growled.

"No." The Hand wasn't sure if that look of remorse on Varys face was genuine or if it was another layer to his performance. "Poor Joffrey … may his spirit find rest amongst the gods." He nodded.

His leg was throbbing, so was his head, the last thing he wanted to do was trade, half truths with the eunuch. "Lord Varys …"

"I've heard an interesting rumor …" He cut him off, his head tilted and an amusing grin came on.

"Yes?"

"Harwin … your captain of the guard, left the city some hours ago, a note to be delivered personally to your son?" He placed his arms in his sleeves.

Ned knew he was fishing, but there was no use in lying about his intentions. "Yes, I've instructed Robb to move his men into the crown lands, he's to be in Dunksdale by the fortnight." He answered honestly.

"Oh lord Stark." Varys chuckled. "Do you truly believe that I don't understand what you're doing?" He sighed sadly. "I'm your friend, do you truly believe I would run to the king with our conversation?" he asked in a hurt voice.

"It's your job." He said darkly.

"My good Hand, may I entrust to you a truth about me?" He got closer. "Kings come and go, but the realm remains. I serve kings, I serve them well, but only for the good of the realm." He grinned.

"It was you that told the Mad King to open the gates for the Lannisters … am I to believe that you did that for the better of the realm, or to throw yourself at the mercy of Tywin Lannister?" He shot angrily. What would the backstabbing eunuch, with his costumes and perfumes, know about duty and the good of the realm?

The bald man's face grew grave. He had hit a nerve it seemed. "I did. A better man had more claim than a mad man, No?" His eyes turned cold. "How about you, my lord?" he asked. "Did you turn in the queen and her children for the sake of the realm or to avenge young Brandon?" he shot back.

The man's wolf's blood stirred in him. "I don't murder children … nor do I hold them responsible for their parent's actions." He took a threatening step forward. The simpering fat man seemed to melt away, and an enigma of personalities seemed to switch, Varys stood his ground.

"If that's so …" He turned and reached for the door handle. "What will I find inside, I wonder?" He made to pull.

Suddenly swords were drawn, and two blades were on either side of the spider's smooth, jowly neck. The man smiled mouthing the word "oh" silently. Ned tightened his jaw and pulled the man backward so that the blades were pointed at him, not on him. The Hand stood between his men.

"It would seem words are wind, Lord Stark."

"Things are complicated."

"So it seems." The eunuch rubbed his neck. "I thought you would like to know that the …" He paused and smiled at the door. "I mean I thought that you would like to know what 'your guest's' last correspondence was." He rubbed his powdered hands together.

Eddard was beyond annoyed now. "Which is? A letter to Ser Jaime, her father?"

"A raven …"

"To?"

The eunuch just smiled disappearing in the dark.

"To the Night's Watch!"

* * *

><p>The door to the Hand's chambers opened with a silent creak, and soft scrapes of boots and a cane upon marble announced the entrance of a man burdened with a conscience of many faces- Joffrey Lannister, bloody and deformed, the shock on his daughters face, the freshly raped queen, her slender body covered in bruises, her children forever changed. All of it happened because he thought he was doing the right thing … all of it because of honor. Doing the right thing had never brought one's mind peace, and it seemed tonight was especially the truth.<p>

The room was darkened, lit dimly by the gleam of the blue moonlight softly glowing high in the dark southern sky, its light blotting out stars. On the white ceiling and wall a shimmer of water reflected distinctively, the moon's rays bouncing off the black water and over the balcony. It's was a chamber, and a setting that Ned Stark could only stop and observe with softened eyes. The Hand of the King had never been a man to enjoy the beauty of things, but this bed chamber on this night was relieving the occupations of his mind.

It was only a moment, before the night came for him again. He saw the big man, who called himself a king, as the boy who was his brother. The laughing, fun loving, black-haired boy, who wasn't the brightest man in Westeros, but was a fair minded youth. He thought of the warrior he served under years later during the rebellion. There was a purpose then, he fought, he killed, but he did it on the battlefield, there was anger, but never cruelty.

"You damned fool … there's more to life than this." Ned breathed sorrowfully The minute they put the crown on his head, a new man took his brothers place, a man Eddard Stark spent eighteen years fooling himself into believing was still the man who grew up with him, a man he had loved like a brother, not to this stranger, not to this king.

"Is there my lord?" The voice was gentle, uncharacteristically gentle, and pensive. There was a sorrow and vulnerability to it that seemed to match this dark moonless night, fool of terrors and monsters. Ned turned and saw a silhouette standing on the balcony just outside of his chambers, obscured by the sheer white drapes fluttering in the light breeze that was blowing off the river.

Ned frowned and followed the sound of the voice past the bed, and through the drapes out into the night where the world was bathed in a blue hue. When he saw the woman he turned away with a clearing of his throat.

The light shined on her golden hair which spilled down her naked, pale back. The light seemed to glisten off the smooth skin, bathing her in an ethereal glow, like some creature from the heavens, as she stood naked as a new born babe watching the rocks below which blocked the rush of the mouth of the river.

"Why do you turn away? … It's nothing you have never seen before." Cersei Lannister didn't turn to face Eddard when she felt his presence.

Ned's voice sputtered. "It wouldn't be proper, Your Grace." He found it hard to call her by her title when she was standing in front of him like this.

"You gave me a natural son, Ned … I believe propriety has long since fled us." It had been years, but for some reason the lord knew that the queen had quirked an eyebrow at her statement, while it stung him to hear it. Eddard felt as small as the Imp at the memory of that night eighteen years past.

Slowly he turned his head back to the queen, the illumination softening his demeanor. He suddenly found himself leaning against a column the way a young man he knew once would have. The woman stood motionless as a statue.

He lowered his eyes the instant that he saw that the glisten was from newly cleansed skin marked with black and green bruises of fist strikes and large calloused hands holding her down. Eddard had loved Robert, but sometimes it was hard to find a reason why, and right now he couldn't find a childhood memory to make up for it.

"How simple …" Cersei's voice was as soft as whisper in the breeze.

She must have known what the Hand had come to realize, because when Ned looked up, she was staring at her body, voice quivering with cold dissent. "How simple …" She repeated suddenly staring at the rocks below.

"My lady." His dark eyes sparked, and he tossed himself off the column in cautious alarm.

He couldn't see it, but he knew she had a smug smile on her lips. "How simple, a few steps and I will be remembered for hundreds of years. The septas tell children stories of my ghost wandering the halls, pining for a lost love. They might even name this tower after me. Cersei's Tower … what do think, my lord?" She asked taking a step toward the stone guard rail.

Eddard took a step forward suddenly, as if attached to her waist by a rope. "Your Grace …"

"I'll live forever." She whispered staring down at the crashing sea and closing her eyes. "How simple." She seemed to listen to the waves. It didn't matter anymore, the scheming, the plotting, and the secret meetings with Jaime. Without just one of her children, Cersei Lannister was lost. All she wanted was for the pain and numbed void in her heart to finally come to an end.

Just as she climbed the guard rail, a shadow stood beside her. "Please …" Ned Stark's voice was soft and gentle; it was the first time since she could remember that someone talked to her that way. "Give me your hand." She could feel him extend it toward her.

She couldn't look at him, couldn't find those grey eyes knowing that if she turned he would have her and then it would be over.

"Think of the Tommen and Myrcella, they couldn't survive losing their brother and their mother in the same night."

"They're better off, with you."

"My lady, think of my children …"

She glared. "What of yours?" She asked.

"They would be as fatherless as yours would be motherless."

Despite what she was telling herself, cold green eyes snapped to Ned Stark. The man had such sorrowful eyes and a grim expression; he was sure he looked how she felt inside. They were two sides of the same coin, he wore his pain for the world to see and she hid hers deep within.

"You would jump after me?" She asked.

The man didn't flinch. "I'm the Hand of the King and you're the Queen, Your Grace." He stated simply. "I'll always come back for you …" there wasn't a moment of hesitation in his voice.

Suddenly all the years, melted away, the bitter resentment of wrongs done to her never seemed to have happened, she was a girl again, he saw it in her face. He may look older, he may have hardened away the handsome boy that had once held her so gently, he may always look so tired, but the words were there. The same words that he had spoken to her the night she knew she wouldn't truly have what she wanted out of life.

"For you …" She repeated.

"Always" He said, younger sounding and looking than he had been in years. Their husband and wife forgotten in that one moment that seemed to have been trapped in time in the Godswood behind them.

She took his hand and slowly he pulled her down into his arms and carried her out of the light, back into the dark room where the last traces of the teenage lovers remained forever.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sister Golden hair – America <strong>_

_**Fire & Rain – James Taylor**_

_**In the Air Tonight – Phil Collins**_


	4. Man's Road

**Man's Road**

_**Three Months Later**_

The morning sun was gleaming through the cracks in the soft, sheer drapes of the opened glass doors of the Tower of The Hand. Its warming golden rays illuminated the king sized bed, situated to catch the light and breeze of the Black Water. The warm caress of light tickled the pale, bare skin of the back of a sleeping woman.

Cersei Lannister sighed comfortably into the feather pillow. The mornings in Kings Landing had been getting crisper and crisper of late, with the cold weather lasting longer and longer into the day. The pale sun of autumn whispered the coming of winter. But, despite the heavy chill, the warmth of the sun on her back was still heavenly.

The woman sighed and turned over, her naked chest on full display for a moment, hands rubbing against her bare stomach, trying to rub the warmth on her as if it were lotion. She stretched with a slight smile and turned over to her other side, reaching for the warmth of the body next to her, lifting her golden head off the pillow to deposit it on a chest.

But there was no one there.

The drop of and leveling back of her head woke her from her half-asleep state. Sleepy green eyes flicked open and found the spot that had been occupied half the night empty. She sat up and looked around the chambers. Maps and documents littered the floor; a bundle of soiled clothing lay on the floor.

"My lord?" She called to out to the back room. There was no answer, no movement what so ever. Running a hand through her golden waves, she uncovered herself, eyes flicking back and forth through the room again.

She had the room memorized; she had been a prisoner in the tower for over three months. The Starks hadn't mistreated her, hadn't locked her in the dungeons as she was sure Robert would've. They had let her roam the tower freely, her every request most of the time was met in a timely manner. For years she had thought the Northmen savages, as wild as the animals they took as their sigils, but these last three months she found that they had more honor and hospitality in them then many southern lords. She thought how exploitable and weak it made them … and how lucky she was to be their prisoner.

Finding a discarded robe on a side table, the queen wrapped it around her. It smelled of a strange, earthy scent. It smelled like her host, and it brought a smile to her face. Wrapping The Hand's robe tightly around her, she walked to the door burying her nose into the shoulder to take in the scent. She pulled the chamber door open to reveal a lit corridor. She wasn't taken by surprise to find two guards wearing boiled leather surcoats, and helmets posted outside.

"Your Grace …" one of the older men addressed her with a curt nod. She smiled lightly. Cersei Lannister figured that in most places she wouldn't be called by her title, a woman convicted of adultery, and treason. Once again she was surprised by the Northmen and their courtesy toward her.

"I'm acquiring after the Lord Hand?" She asked looking down the corridor. It had large open windows with the sweet smell of late summer roses wafting down the halls.

"Lord Eddard had pressing business with several of his Bannermen, Lord Cerwyn and Tolbert, Your Grace. He expected to be back before you woke … he instructed us to inform you if that was not the case, that if you were in need of company to find Lady Sansa, who has taken to Lord Robb's chambers currently." He motioned down the hall.

Cersei gave another light smile. "No, that won't be needed … thank you." She closed the door.

The queen thought of poor, naïve, insipid, Sansa. They said that the girl, upon learning of their beloved Joffery's death, had locked herself in her room. Cersei had been grateful that her child's death was mourned by someone. Everyone else acknowledged that it was a dishonorable way to be dispatched, and the murder of prisoners was not kingly behavior. But as to her boy's death, no one shed a tear. Not even Tommen or Myrcella. Cersei was glad that someone else in this world cared for her boy, but rather than do something about it, to help avenge him, Sansa Stark melted into her brother's arms.

Robb Stark had hated Joffery and Joffery him. It had been whispered that their comforts to her was simply "He wasn't worth it." Cersei had been outraged, was he not her boy, blood of the lions of the rock, a prince, shouldn't there be an outcry for justice? She sent letters to her father, the lion of the rock, the most powerful man in the realm, he did not return them. Did he not care? Did no one care for her son but her? Was she the only one who looked to avenge him? If Sansa Stark was going to wither in sorrow in her brother's chambers rather than use it to avenge a boy she claimed to love, then she truly was not worthy of his time, heart, or seed … her seed.

But then could she blame her? Cersei thought walking the cluttered chamber of a battle commander. Cersei had spent much of her time since Joffery's murder in this chamber. Those first terrible weeks she had sat in this room watching the walls, watching Eddard scribble notes and look over maps. If he minded her there he did not say.

But the gilded queen had one advantage over Sansa … Cersei Lannister had learned to live with sorrow so close to each other , to not need a mother to help her, since she was four … Sansa would have to start at fourteen.

Looking at the tangle of sheets in the bed she shared, she knew there was no way Eddard Stark would've let her between these sheets, had Catelyn Stark, his wife, been alive.

She had been at Eddard's throat, her grief turned to anger. She wanted revenge she wanted someone to do something about the death of her son. Ned had offered nothing to her but his sympathy and protection to the rest of her children. He was more concerned for her than her son; a cup had been flung at him when the door opened. At first she had thought it was guards come to drag her to a cell. But amongst them were men with the trout sigil of Tully, and the twin towers of Frey. They all had a look of pain in their eyes, all but the Frey that is.

Cersei was sent to chambers at the urging of the men, it was a deeply private matter. Hours and hours went by and she had waited in Eddard's room instead of her own. They weren't done, someone had to do something for Joffery. Outside there were curses and yells, for a moment she thought that Robert had finally come for her. She believed truly that the city watch was storming the tower, despite a Stark army in Rusby. But there was no clashing of swords or battle cries. She opened the chamber door slightly, and saw Sansa. She was on the floor, her sobs loud and painful. For a moment Cersei felt the need to rush to her. But before she could the handsome heir of house Stark walked to her, big and strong, eyes filled with tears, despite the beard and hard veteran soldier look, he looked so much of a boy. He bent down and scooped up the girl.

Seeing two of them she found herself missing Jaime. He had been ransomed back to their father for nine million dragons and a waiver of debt that the crown had owed. But that was all anyone knew since he was walked like an animal back west. But it was the way Robb Stark held his sister, she was precious to him, she was his princess. Cersei had always seen herself as an equal to Jaime, a force to be reckoned with, a lioness of great ferocity. But when she was at her most sorrowful, vulnerable, when she felt there was no one she could turn to, she knew how much love and safety it brought to know how precious to someone you were, to be held by strong arms of pure love and know you were someone's princess.

That night Eddard Stark came to his chambers to find her waiting. He looked haunted and disconnected, as if he wasn't sure where he was. Cersei had been ready to pounce on him, to continue what she started in his office. But when he looked that way, she was compelled to go to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, his arm draped around her shoulder as she helped him to a seat. She poured him wine, it never caught her notice till now, but she was more of a wife to Ned at that moment than she had ever been to Robert.

He didn't talk, didn't drink, he barely blinked. He looked at the wall for a long time. Cersei felt frightened, and she wasn't sure why. What had happened that brought so much sorrow to the Lord Hand that he was unable to express emotion or even function? She sat next to him, watching him as he rotated his jaw.

"What happened my lord?" She whispered. She wasn't sure why she whispered, but it didn't seem proper to talk in a normal voice. His jaw trembled for a moment, before he covered it with his large hand, stroking his stubble in thought.

"She's gone …" His voice had been muffled by his hand.

"Who … who is gone?" She felt nervous, cautious. She was a prisoner, stranded by her father, at the mercy of men she did not know or trust. Her children and her safety were at the edge of a knife.

"Cat … Cat is gone." He said, a hard blink. "She's dead." He turned to Cersei as if he couldn't comprehend what he was saying.

Cersei swallowed and turned to the wine in her own hand. She didn't hate Catelyn Stark; she was a good loyal woman … a well taught sheep at her worst. She thought of her sometimes as she had watched the Stark girls when they first came to the city. Did she miss them? Had she been in Lady Stark's place would she allow Myrcella, her little princess and love, to be separated from her, to let her leave with Jaime to some strange place? That was till she had to make that choice herself, then she understood the pain of it all. She had no choice but let Syrio Forell and Rodrick Cassel to take Myrcella and Tommen with Arya Stark back to Winterfell for their own safety. She remembered standing on Eddard's balcony watching their ship leave the harbor. She had melted into Eddard's chair in tears, then had screamed and flung things at Eddard when he returned from the docks. When she was through she clung to him; she was alone and naked. Her father would not come for her, Jaime was missing since he returned to the Rock, and now her children were taken from her. She had found a new respect for Catelyn Stark … and now she was dead.

The Lord of Winterfell's eyes were filled with guilt and confusion, as if he was the one who plunged the knife into his wife's heart … worst yet, he looked at Cersei as if she had held her down while he did it. There was something that he wasn't telling her.

"What is it, Ned?" She dispensed with the formalities.

He blinked hard again. "She was killed in a tavern fight …" He said, looking at the wine in his hand with a new horror.

"Tavern fight … how?" She asked.

He shook his head. "It was at the Inn at the Crossroads. She was heading to Riverrun with her brother Edmure." He sounded disconnected. "They came across your brother ..." He said.

"Jaime?" the name came out before she had time to process.

"No … Tryion." He shook his head.

"The imp …" She acknowledged.

Eddard nodded. "He was meeting a party there, Cat … she, she tried to arrest them. They resisted, the Frey's came to her side … Your brother's party killed them all … she was run through with a sword, her and her brother." He shook her head.

Cersei hated Tryion, but there was a small part of her that felt enraged that the self-righteous little fish wife tried to lay hands on her brother again. There was a part of her, a human part of her that felt true sympathy for Ned and his children, all fine decent lordlings and ladies. But a Lannister part of her was smug, a Lannister always paid his debts and one ill turn deserved another. A Lion doesn't fall for the same trap twice.

"I … I don't believe it." He continued.

Cersei took a draft of her wine. "The Imp maybe small, but he's clever." She started.

"It wasn't Tryion who killed her." He replied. "It was … the leader of the group he was meeting." He tried to sound composed, but he sounded so broken and shocked.

"Who was it?" She pressed, her hand found his forearm. He looked to her hand, and then to her as if she was co-conspirator to their murder.

"It was Jon …" He said with a haunted look and broken voice. "Tryion was meeting Jon and several companions at the Inn at the Crossroads. Catelyn tried to arrest him for desertion and … Willem Frey said that he killed her, that he and his companions killed all of the Frey's and Tully men in the inn." He covered his mouth and sunk back in the chair.

"Jon?" She gasped, her grip tightened on his forearm. "Jon did this?" She couldn't fathom it, she couldn't imagine it. Not Jon … not her Jon … not the sweet little babe in her arms who smiled before he cried, who reached for her in those first moments of life. "No" She denied.

Eddard didn't hear her, his face was cover by shadow. "Why?" his voice was empty. "Why did Cat come after him? Why did he resist … and what was he doing so far south, away from the Wall?" his voice sounded weary and his heart soaked with sorrow, like a heavy wet cloth. Cersei had set her cup aside and climbed into his lap.

"It doesn't matter." She whispered again. "Save those questions for later …" She wrapped her arms around his head and placed it against her bosom. He buried his face against her chest and she laid her head against his. In the back of her mind she tried not to think of the answers to his questions … for her own safety.

Blinking, Cersei returned to her and Eddard's room and sat in the chair. For a moment she was back in her old chambers, before Eddard had told Robert of her and Jaime's love. A piece of parchment scribbled with her hand writing, meant for the Wall.

CLANK

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the doors opened. Handmaids in simple blue and grey dresses entered the chamber. They were older women, professionals of a lower birth than Cersei was used to. Her handmaids had been young, beautiful, and of high birth. But like most things, the Starks were different. They expected their lords and ladies to do most things themselves, they didn't find honor in their ladies being maids to higher birthed women.

"I'm sorry for the startle, Your Grace." The head maid apologized without stopping her setting up. She was a brisk old lady, hard talking, hard getting along with. "But we have to measure you for the dress you will be wearing at the Tournament." She said.

Cersei had forgotten about Robert's damned tourney. Eddard had set up her trial for adultery and treason. Her judges were to be Brydon Tully, Barristan Selmy, and Dornan Martell, but Robert had told Eddard, trial or no trial, she would be found guilty. From what she could understand things between Eddard and Robert were breaking down, and it was spreading between the Stark Bannermen and some of the southern lords such as Tyrells and Baratheons. The strain of dishonor and means justifying the ends of Robert's reign had clashed with the Northmen and their honorable code. While the murder of Catelyn and Edmure Tully had brought the wrath of the River Lords against Robert, the belief was that the Lannisters had murdered them in retaliation for Joffery.

It would be trial by combat that would settle Cersei's fate. But Robert had yet to choose a champion, so he was to hold a large melee in order to find his champion. Like the blusterous fool he is, he had made it the second coming of the Tournament at Harrenhal. Every lord and lady in the Seven Kingdoms, except the Lannisters, was required to attend with their oldest son and daughter. Everyone had come, even those as far as Volantis, to enjoy and celebrate Cersei's humiliation. Humiliation in that Cersei had no champion, for no man in the Seven Kingdoms would come forward to defend her honor. Whether it was because they knew it wasn't a just cause, or because they feared Robert's retribution for protecting her.

The bath the maids drew for her was a pleasant kind of warm when she stepped inside it. They left Cersei her scrubbing brush, soaps, and lotions, stepping out of the room. She let herself absorb the comforting warmth of the soapy water. Slumping lower in the ivory tub, looking out the open window above, her mind wandered away from her.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but eventually she had washed good and hard, scrubbing herself pink, her maids dried her, but rather than pulling on her own silk robe, she preferred the Hand's. This made the maids uncomfortable it seemed, they were northern women from Winterfell. Cersei was sure that they served Catelyn Tully. It was strange, but Cersei had started calling her Tully again in her mind. For some weeks now, Cersei began feeling herself become more and more the mistress of Winterfell. Sometimes in bed Eddard would turn over, and pull the queen close to him and Cersei would wonder if he ever did this with Catelyn, ever smelled her hair and caressed her belly. Cersei was no Stark, but in the dark of the night, when truths were the only language spoken, she was the wolf's true mate.

She was surprised to find soft boiled eggs, encompassed by bread, buttered and fried. It came with a side of bacon. Across from her seat she found Eddard Stark waiting for her, but not noticing her. He was a thousand leagues away, looking out the window, a sliver of her bacon in hand, half eaten. He looked grim and melancholy as always. It seemed rather against the queen's personality, but she found more to love about that serious face than any other she's loved. All her life she was bedded by men who didn't care for seriousness. Jaime and Robert wanted to have fun, to tell a jest, and for everyone to love them for it. Eddard Stark was dark, serious, and thoughtful. Some of his own men have said he had no sense of humor. Being raised by Tywin Lannister, a serious man himself, Cersei knew that this man was a true lord, a man who respected serious situations, and respected her.

"I take it, you haven't eaten …" She said, his robe swirling at her ankles. Ned blinked and found Cersei, he observed his robe on her and found a slight smile. It was sorrowful, yet genuine, smile that it seemed only Cersei could pry out of him in these private moments.

"I was with Maester Pycelle …" He rubbed his eyes.

Cersei gracefully slid into her seat. "No more is needed to be said … the man does talk well." She smirked.

"He does tend to prattle on, doesn't he?" He chuckled tiredly.

Cutting into the fried bread she lifted her eyes to parchment in his hand. "What was it you were speaking to him of?" She downcast her eyes back to her food, taking a generous bite, with regal lady like manners.

The Hand's face seemed confused. "I'm not sure what we were talking of … I believe I stopped paying attention, somewhere along Myrish scopes." He seemed a little guilty, a true man of chivalry.

Cersei smiled, while she chewed. Eddard looked down at the parchment and back at her, and twitched an eyebrow. He saw through her question and what she really wanted to know. What was he up to?

There was an uneasy feeling amongst some of the Northern Bannermen about how much Eddard shared with Cersei. Like the handmaids, many of them were used to Catelyn being the mother of the north. She had earned their trust since she was barely flowered, betrothed to only Starks, destined to be the Lady of Winterfell. Cersei was a Lannister, a treasonous queen, with a hypnotizing beauty and body. She heard Roose Bolton talk of the Night King at a feast fortnight ago, when Cersei took Lady Catelyn's seat next to Eddard on the dais. Great Jon Umber challenged him, saying that a Bannermen with no faith in his liege lord was no loyal man. Bolton apologized to Eddard after a tense silence, but spared her no words.

Robb Stark was of the same mindset. She ate supper every night with the remaining Starks in Kings Landing. Robb and Sansa sat together, Sansa never being too far from Robb Stark's strong comforting arms. Those were long nights, Robb Stark staring daggers at her from across the table, while Sansa told her of the entire goings on in the court.

"There's word from Winterfell." Ned's voice was serious, sliding out of his chair and walking toward the window.

This was what she had been waiting for since they got word that the children had arrived a month ago. She turned everything in her being toward Ned who was slowly undressing out of his formal wear.

"Yes?" She tried to sound calm.

Eddard turned and nodded to her in reassurance. But she didn't want his damned reassurance; she wanted news of her children. "What of Myrcella?" There was a pain in Cersei's chest. Her girl, alone in the Stark stronghold, guarded by a cripple boy, a balding maester, and an old master-at-arms who braids his facial hair.

But when she looked up, Ned Stark had a small private smile. "She's doing well." He trailed off.

Something about the rare smile made her give a quirk to her lips. "What?" She showed her teeth in the coy grin.

"Luwin writes that she's enjoying herself quite a bit. She likes staring at the stars through his Myrish scope, and she enjoys listening to Arya's dance instructor's stories at supper." He sat.

"Forell?" Was all the golden haired beauty could conjure from memory, distracted by Myrcella's smiles, playing with Tommen, at her feet when they were babes.

"Yes, but …" He got another smile.

The "but" gave her alarming pause. "But what?" She slipped to the edge of her seat.

The Hand's pin clinked as he set it on the night stand. "According to Luwin … her favorite part of the day is reading with Bran." He gave her a knowing look.

She remembered the Stark's young boy, the handsome face, the easy smiles … "Good …" She trailed off in thought, before she smiled a private smile of her own. Brandon Stark was no Robert Baratheon. She will be happier than Cersei, and it was all she ever wanted for her from the moment she held her in her arms.

Eddard seemed pensive a moment. "There was word from Riverrun as well … Holster Tully seems to have died." He said. She wasn't sure why he chose to tell her this, but sometimes Eddard just need to talk and Cersei found that, like when she was little watching her father plan and govern, she enjoyed to listen.

"He was well thought of." She supplied.

Ned glared. "He was an opportunist piece of scum." He replied hotly. The harsh aggression in his voice cause Cersei to jump back, and for a moment she would've liked nothing more than for him to take her roughly and spill his seed inside her without remorse. After blushing quietly, she cleared her throat.

"He used his daughters as bargaining chips to further his power." He continued. Cersei ate quietly for a long moment as Ned sighed, letting old wounds bleed out the bad blood, before scabbing.

"The Riverlands are important. They're the key food provider in the realm." Cersei added.

Ned nodded. "And with winter coming, no one will profit from chaos." He agreed.

"Ser Brydon would be the logical choice." She advised.

He sighed. "Ser Brydon refuses to marry … thus he has no heirs. But it's worse. Lysa Arryn has sent word for the River Lords to swear fealty to her son." He rubbed his stubble.

"Robert Arryn, Lord of the Riverlands and the east?" She tried not to laugh. "He's still at his mother's breast, and he's Tommen's age." She protested.

"Littlefinger is backing her claim in the small council." He glared.

Of course Littlefinger would, Cersei saw through it. She saw the way Baelish and Lysa were always tittering in private before she fled the capitol. Baelish has something up his sleeve, a ploy of some sort.

"What does Brydon say?" She asked.

Eddard got pensive a moment. "He had a proposal. He asked to take Bran as his ward, and name him his heir when it was time. He says he looks the most like Cat amongst our boys." He turned back to Cersei as if he was asking for her opinion.

She just stared at him almost in shock. She couldn't believe he was asking her for her opinion. Every time she had given Robert, or even her father, her own thoughts all she had gotten was a cold stare or, in case of Robert, a comment about the gold purse in between her legs being what he wanted from her.

"My lady?" Eddard brought her back.

"I …" She trailed off. She cleared her head and thought hard. But all she could hear was how happy Myrcella was with Brandon Stark. The last thing she wanted was to separate her the way their father did with her and Jaime.

"What of your youngest son …?" She trailed off, not sure what his name actually was. "He's a babe still. If taken to Riverrun now, he might be raised amongst some of the younger sons of the Riverlands. To make friendships that a Lord of the Trident might need when Walder Frey or Littlefinger and Lysa decide to make a move." She said hopefully.

There was a pause for a moment. He was actually thinking of her proposal, it made her sit a little taller, made her feel powerful. He turned back to her and sighed.

"I'll think on it …" He said quietly. He seemed almost emotional. The further he thought of the situation the more it became clear to Cersei that he was thinking of separating his family further. She felt a twinge in her belly, a twinge of sorrow she knew well.

"Is there news of Tommen?" She asked hopefully.

For a long moment he stared at her, before he turned away. His reaction was enough to stop her heart, something had happened. She stood, her fork clattering on the plate, she strode after him.

"Lord Stark … if something has happened to my boy, I'll have you tell me." She commanded. Eddard sighed placing his hands behind his back wandering toward the balcony overlooking the river.

"I don't know what's become of Tommen." He said worriedly.

Cersei's chest began to sink. Did she lose another one of her babes? Gods, not another one, not her little boy, her baby. "Did he not make it to Winterfell?" Her voice broke.

Eddard nodded. "He was there … for a time." He sounded unsure how to continue.

"Where is my boy?" She snapped in helpless anger.

"He rode off with a passing company that Bran armed and supplied …" He turned to face her.

"Who's company!" She pushed

"Jon's"

* * *

><p>A cold wind shuddered through the trees of the open dirt road, it's frigid fingers groping with arms of a nameless fear from the north, it's sinister secrets shaking the last of the leaves of autumn off its branches. The air was moist and damp, carrying with it a chill that could get into a weaker man and stay with him till his dying breath.<p>

There was nothing in the Crownlands anymore, except warfare and reckless regard for man and land by westerners and northerners. The death and destruction smelled of dead loyalties and the treason of selfish love between two lion cubs with no understanding of the consequence of the heart. The pale sun of late autumn told the news that it would soon retire. The darkness in the hour before it should grace the torn land was a preview of what would come for all of them when the world forgot happiness and the looming threat came for them all. The emotionless, heavy clouds hung over the setting like an unkept oath on a man of honor's conscious.

In the breeze, a boy sat on a horse watching several bodies sway to the music of nature from their spots on tree branches, attached by the neck to a noose. The boy was small and young, some might say too young to see such things, but in a land ravished by war and injustice, it was better for him to understand now than when he shared a rope and tree branch of his own. His pony snorted and whickered from under him, backing away nervously.

"It's okay, Nuncle …" He said gently to the shaggy animal, patting its thick neck, scratching out a tangle out of its gray mane of long hair.

A standard issue Lannister cloak, weather worn and faded, draped the boy shoulders. Its dark cowl covered wind swept curls of beaten gold. A tall man's white and brown duster embraced him snuggly under the cloak, protecting him from the cold. A knight's sword was hung on his saddle. It had a gold and wood handle, with a matching twisting cross guard. It was a lord's weapon, a man's weapons, and a Kingslayer's weapon. Equipment entrust to him by his younger uncle at the Inn at the Crossroads. Equipment given to him at the request of the boy, by the man who they belonged to.

The bodies on display were not Lannister soldiers like in the Riverlands, those he could forage from like he had at the Green Fork. They were women; he could tell because they didn't have what he had between his legs. They had they're privy parts inside them, like he saw when mother would bath in front of him. He took a moment not to stare at the bodies, like Ser told him not too, but to pay respect to them. Ser told him that if he could, they would stop and bury everybody they came across and say some words, like they had for his friends who fell in the Riverlands. But their companions were the last graves they had dug. They had to be at the Summer Islander mistress's brothel in Kings Landing in a fortnight from this morning, to meet up with his uncle again.

The reason the young squire stopped was because he knew the ladies hanging nakedly from the tree. Their garments had been taken from them before death, or ripped from their bodies by travelers or scavengers looking to sell silk small clothes. The boy knew they had to be silk, because they used to wear the same matching clothing as his mother and sister. The women hanging from the tree weren't just any women; they had been ladies of the highest birth, with one of the highest honors.

They had been the Queen's handmaidens once.

He couldn't remember their names. They had never told him and, truth be told, his mother never wanted them in the first place. The one on the right, with the pecked out eyeball and missing nipples, used to read to him when his mother was called away. The big one, with sliced open belly, used to eat his beets for him, when his mother was scowling at his fath … his … her husband. The last one, the one on the left, she was a good girl. She was his sister's friend. They had played games and laughed. They had played with his kittens together.

"**LANNISTER WHORES"** The sign nailed to her chest said.

He didn't believe it, or maybe he should? The boy didn't know the real truths, or who or what he was anymore. He was only eight and went from a palace and castles, playing with his kittens, to being cold and hungry, unsure where home was or if he ever had one in the first place. Wearing a jacket and sword that belonged to a man who wasn't who he thought he was.

"Meow"

It was a tiny little noise that caught his attention, the blond youth turned back and saw a furry little head, nuzzle its way out of his saddle bag. Its ears were white and it's impossibly fluffy, coal black face was looking around. He tightened his cheek.

"Ser Hodor … "He chastised quietly. If Ser found out he brought another animal with him on their trek, he wouldn't be happy. "You're not supposed to come out yet … it's too cold." He said reaching inside his too big white and brown leather coat, stuffing some dried corn inside his saddle bag and gently placing his new kitten back inside. "Go back to sleep." He whispered

"CORN!"

"CORN!"

A crow flapped above the boy's head, perching on a creaking tree branch. Its black feathers looked purple in the dim light of coming day. Its beady eyes looked mean and yet wise, it's nose greedily pointing to the boy's breast.

"CORN!"

"CORN!"

Green eyes glared. "Ser, already fed you! You're always so greedy … Ser Hodor hasn't eaten this morning!" He said defiantly.

"CORN!"

"No!"

The Crow perched back and suddenly went silent, the two trading wordless glares of confrontation.

"SNOW!"

"SNOW!"

It fluttered away at the sound of snapping twigs. The young boy rounded on the origin of the sound and found why his pony was uneasy. Hidden in the branches of the dying trees, wild red eyes watched the boy emotionlessly. They belonged to a silent hunter with snow white fur and a height that seemed unnatural. The boy felt uneasy, he had liked the wolf well enough, but that was till the fight at the inn back in the Riverlands. He had never seen an animal tear a knight's throat open, or bite that Frey boy who had stabbed lady Catelyn's head right off. The young squire loved all sorts of animals, but this one was one he had to get to know better.

The boy wheeled his pony around toward the voices. They belonged to two figures. The first was on a matching grey charger, cloaked in black. His cowl was pulled over his head, rendering his face unrecognizable. Strapped to the side of a pack across his back was a sword of great worth, with a black leather handle and a white wolf's head with ruby eyes for a pummel. The crow from earlier sat perched on his shoulder as he passed. He seemed like a dark figure, frightening to look upon sometimes. He hadn't been the same since the fight at the Inn at the Crossroads. He seemed to be darkened since they lost most of the companions that had set out with them from Winterfell … Grenn, Pip, Dolourus, Ser Rodrick … but amongst all of them it seemed it was Ygritte he mourned the most.

The figure behind Ser looked out of place in contrast to the intimidating and brooding figure in front of him. He was a fat boy on a horse that seemed a bit too small for him. He wore a big thick fur lined cloak that made him look even bigger. His attitude was cheery, a needed contrast to what remained of their company. He was smiling and staring at a thimble in hand.

"You know another thing about Gilly that's fascinating?"

"Couldn't imagine."

"Her teeth, they're not as bad as her sister's … our old cook at Horn Hill used to say that a lass with good teeth was a keeper."

"I'm sure he could write a book of wisdom."

"I'm not sure he could read …"

"With advice like that … I couldn't tell."

"Maybe I'll teach Gilly how to read once we get back to Winterfell … if we get out of this tourney alive that is."

"You'll see her and the baby again … one way or the other."

"I'd prefer one way, rather than the other."

"Valar morgulis"

"Not today, says this water dancer."

"Heh …"

The boy watched them for a moment as they passed, then he turned back, but the wolf was gone, leaving nothing behind to show he was ever there.

"Squire!"

The Knight in black called after the boy as they went down the road. The boy looked around once more for the wolf, before looking up at the sky, feeling the wind kick up. He closed his father's leather coat around him, and with a kick he trotted his pony after the two, falling in line.

Above a light snow began to fall.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>

_**This Chapter's song is "Man's Road" by "America" **_

_**Sorry if this feels like filler. This chapter originally started out with Cersei's trial, but I got a better idea to write a Tourney ... but then I decided to add a little background intrigue ... so I guess you could say this chapter's title should be set up. **_

_**Read & Review as always.**_


	5. After All These Years

**After All These Years**

"I will not bend the knee to a boy!"

"You have no choice!"

"Aye! I have no choice but to honor the word of my father and claim Tully!"

"HERE, HERE!"

"TULLY RULES THE RIVER!"

"No! No!"

"My son has the claim!"

"NO! BRANDON STARK!"

"A cripple?! I name all of you traitors, those who will not take my son as your liege! By right of his blood!"

"House Frey seconds Lady Arryn!"

"That's right Arryn, you weasel faced fuck! He's no Tully! It is Lord Brynden who is heir!"

"Then let him marry!"

The days had becoming increasingly colder in the capital and it might have made Ned Stark feel more at home. But on cold days there were furs and a woman's body to keep a man warm, and yet there was nothing about this demandable iron chair to keep Eddard's ass or heart warm. The throne room was filled with people, lords and their ladies, knights of the realm. He looked to the audience balconies and saw their silken dresses and shined tunics.

On the tile floor, below the throne, crowds had formed. They were separated into two groups on either side of the throne room. On each side ceremonial banners flew from each house of the Riverlands — sons and father, grandfathers, and heirs. They all shouted across the room at one another, separated only by the pikes of the golden armored city watch. Each man and boy rallied around three figures.

To Eddard's right stood his good sister, Lysa Arryn. She wore a black dress with slit sleeves as the style of the Vale, and her skirt torn in mourning for her sister and brother. Her dark Tully eyes were afire, some might say crazed, as she ranted over the crowd. She was backed by the twin towers of Frey, and the Red Stallion of Bracken. Eddard wasn't so sure that the Brackens supported Lysa as much as they wouldn't be caught dead on the same side as the Blackwoods. But most important of all, to Eddard's chagrin, was Petyr Baelish standing behind Lysa, smiling smugly as if the world was missing some larger joke. There was air of legitimacy in their thinking to have a member of the small council backing their cause to sit young Robert Arryn on the seat at Riverrun.

To Eddard's left stood the stalwart figure of old Brynden Tully in his scaled dark leathers, his hard face implacable in the eye of his niece's verbal storm. In support behind him was the other Tully family representative. Robb looked fierce and handsome. The latter trait unmissed by many of the maidens in the room, who may not have come to see the council at all, but to gaze upon the handsome Lord of Winterfell, accomplished hero of the Lannister wars. But unaware, or ignoring his audience, Robb had taken a cue from his uncle and dressed in his informal leather surcoat and blue long sleeve. It was their stance that it didn't take fancy clothing to make a ruler, but blood and deeds. Ned felt a moment of pride to see his son standing before the realm, a man grown, strong and unmovable in the face of his foes. Had Cat been here he could almost see her grin of fierce pride in what their son had made of himself in times of such peril. Behind Robb and Brynden were the hard men made of war, that had given loyalty to those they had deemed earned it. Their banners were made of the silver eagle of Mallister, the dead Weirwood of the Blackwoods, and the bats of house Whent.

The Hand of the King could feel a headache coming as he slouched in the cold Iron seat, rubbing his forehead to dull the ache of a constant shouting and ranting. He opened his eyes and snuck a look to the right. Stiff in her chair, Cersei showed no emotion to the commotion in front of her. Her long tresses of golden hair were brushed out and in perfect curls. Her fierce eyes raked those in the balcony and those in the crowd with cold indifference. She had traded the golds and crimsons of her father's house for the silver and blues of house Stark as their lord's captive. Her silken blue gown with silver embroidery and long white sleeves showed a stunning regal nature that no lady of Winterfell had ever shown in hundreds of years. With a silver choker and jeweled tiara the marvelous beauty looked as every bit a queen that many of these lords and ladies from across the Kingdoms could have expected to see in what were many of their first visits to Kings Landing. Lord Varys had warned Eddard beforehand that he was making a mistake in not only bringing Cersei to the Lords Convention, but to allow her dress in such an audacious manner. As a queen accused of adultery and treason, whose house was in disgrace, it might be considered in poor taste for the Hand of the King to dress the King's enemy in his colors and allow her to be so radiant in front of the entire realm.

"And what would you have me do, Lord Varys? Tell her to rub shit over herself? Dress her in silent sister's robes? She's a beautiful woman, my Lord. I would not deny the gods what they made her."

"Lord Eddard!" The shrill voice of Lysa Arryn called to him.

Ned gave long sigh and motioned a hand to Harwin, the now Captain of the City Watch. With a nod of his head, the men of the guard began to pound their pikes onto the floor till all the chatter had stopped. When they were done, there was an uneasy silence that crept back into the throne room. The Hand rubbed his nose tiredly, before facing his good sister.

"Lady Arryn?" he addressed her.

"I demand that you make a Judgment on this matter of succession!" She strode forward. "As my sister's husband, and the father of her children, you are the most qualified!" She announced.

"Who are you to make demands of the hand?" Robb spoke up angrily. Eddard appreciated his son's defense and distaste for Lysa's tone in which she spoke to him. But sadly as heralded as Robb was in the Battlefield, there was much he needed to learn of ruling. In Winterfell and the North they ruled in absolute power, but in this snakes den, courtesy, amongst the highest born lords and ladies of the land was a luxury, not a demand.

"Lord Stark, you were not addressed to speak!" Eddard chastised his son. "Continue Lady Arryn." He nodded. The auburn haired youth stepped back deflated and embarrassed. He had the look of the six year old that Eddard angrily dressed down with Jon for both playing behind a unbroken warhorse, that could have easily caved in one of their tiny little curly haired heads with a single kick.

"I implore you to end this madness, and name my son, Lord of the Trident, by royal decree." Her voice shook with madness, even as lucid as she was, there was something broken inside.

Eddard had remembered the girl at Riverrun, pretty and fresh, though oddly sad. It was true that it was no maiden's dream to marry an older man, but even after The Greyjoy Rebellion, the last time he saw her, there was still something hopeful inside her. But now he almost did not recognize the woman in front of him. She had aged overnight it seemed, her voice girlish and shrill, and her look prideful and withered. She had been the antithesis of Catelyn, who had found her happiness in his arms and in the tiny patter of their children's feet.

"And why would that be, Lady Arryn?"

All in the court turned their full attention to the Queen. There was something dark and cold in her emerald jewels. Even still as a stone, there was an anger bordering rage embodied in her rigid posture at Eddard's side. Lysa looked as if she had been slapped in the face, by the question alone.

"My son has the right …" Lysa spoke up.

"Your son has the Vale … why would he also need the River Lands?" Cersei turned her head coldly. "Lord Frey?" She addressed the older man behind Lysa. All of Walder Frey's brood had the same weasel features and small eyes. Walder Frey's oldest, Walder, strode forward.

There was a sinister look about the long nosed older man. "He has the blood of the River in his veins, **my Lady**." He spoke with distain in his voice. Eddard noted the refusal to call her by her title.

There was a predatory smirk that graced the beauty's rosy lips. "Yes, and I suppose that Lady Arryn promised young Robert to one of your "comely" sisters or nieces. Your father's creative way to put house Frey in the heraldry of Riverrun, if not to take it over completely. Tell me Lord Walder, if young Robert rules in the Vale, who would look after Riverrun in his stead? Surely not Lord Brynden." There was a look of shock and fear on Walder Frey's face in reaction to the aggression on Cersei's. "And you, Baelish?" She addressed the amused man with the salt and pepper goatee.

"Merely a concerned family friend, your grace." The master of coin gestured cockily with a grand sweeping bow.

The Queen scoffed. "Robert Arryn, such a sickly boy … It would be years before he would take rule over his vast territory. I'm sure Lady Arryn would be overwhelmed with the responsibility as regent. A husband would be a great benefit … possibly a concerned family friend. It would be a rise for one of such … humble origins to the ruler over the largest kingdom in Westeros." She tilted her head at the hidden implication with a look of frigid savagery.

There was a sudden burst of murmurs and whispers amongst the crowd at the implied motives of Lysa's supporters. Walder Frey shrank back into the group of his kin, Lysa looked outraged, and Petyr Baelish could not contain his Cheshire grin, nodding respectfully, as chivalrous knight might at a well struck blow in a tourney. Eddard looked back and forth between the crowd of suddenly restless nobility and to Cersei who betrayed just the slightest of a smirk that dripped of satisfaction as a prey's blood might a lioness's fangs.

Lysa was incensed, marked by the wild look in her eyes. When she strode forward she nearly tripped on her skirts, eliciting a small chuckle from the audience above. "How dare you!" She screeched at the cold beauty. "How dare you even allow her to speak to me in this manner, a creature such as this?" She yelled at Eddard.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Robb stride forward again. Quickly he held his hand up to halt his son's anger. The boy's aunt turned around a moment, glared with a disdain that no true family member would ever aim at their kin and rounded on Ned again.

"Lady Arryn, she is still your queen, and as of yet stands only accused of treasonous crimes. You will allot her the proper respect of her title and opinion." There was a firm command in his voice. He left little to be argued. But as he had always known, there was no reasoning with the mad. They saw and believed what they wanted to see.

Lysa mounted the first step toward the Iron Throne in protest. "I will not sit by while this whore accuses me of planning with Walder Frey the murder of my siblings to take my father's seat!" She shouted shrilly, pointing from Cersei to The Hand. There was an explosion of chatter suddenly from all in the throne room. The Northman's jaw set grimly, and his hands gripped the armrests angrily. The mad woman was innocently surprised by the sudden reaction to her words. She watched the Queen stare at her captor with unreadable eyes. Eddard was unable to speak, and had he, it would shake the entire realm into open war. One Stark had already caused so many deaths with his wolf's blood and careless words, he would not be the second. So Eddard remained silent and tense.

Finally Cersei spoke to Lysa. "Lady Arryn …" She tilted her head. "I never spoke of such things." She seemed vengeful with a darkness deeply shown in her fierce eyes. Had it been true of the plots to murder Catelyn and Edmure, this mad woman, the puppet of ambitious schemers, had falsely named their baseborn son outlaw and sicced the ruthlessly self-righteous Stannis Baratheon and his Red Woman upon him.

Taking a step off the stair, her eyes searched around carefully. "I … I … I" She repeated dumbfound under the rage of angry gray eyes. She turned on Cersei with stewed up anger. "You've put words in my mouth! Manipulated me into saying things!" She accused shakily. "She has affected your mind, Lord Stark, truly!" She announced. "A deceitful whore who murdered my husband to keep her incestuous abomination a secret!" She had become theatrical as she spoke to the audience who had all but turned against her.

The queen met these new slights with a look of cutting contempt. But it was Eddard Stark who found his feet. "Lady Arryn, you are ordered to leave this throne room! Only to return when summoned!" His voice echoed through the hollow halls. The auburn haired woman was startled by the powerful booming voice learned on the field of battle.

"Have I cut too deep into the truth, my lord?! Spoken through the lies she's told you in my sister's marriage bed?!" She pushed.

Eddard was now shaking. "You have spoken yourself into the swing of my sword, Lady. Spoken yourself into irons! If you were a man your words would've earned death, and yet you may escape it yet, if you plague me no more with talk of your rights and the love of my wife!" His voice had become graveled and dangerous.

There was a tense beat of silence, before Littlefinger took Lysa by the arm. "A fair judge, my lord." He gave a nod. He was discretely forceful in removing her from the room, whispering in her ear as they disappeared into the crowd. With their lynchpin being led away, Lysa's supporters began to dwindle.

"I call an end to this convention for the day!" He announced with a dangerous temper showing in his commanding voice. Sweat began to dampen his brow at the ache in his leg that overcame him at the rash action of standing without his cane. But still he maintained his commanding presence till the crowds dispersed and the hush was replaced by the shuffling of feet and conversation.

He stood till he couldn't take any more pain. When his head began to grow light, he collapsed backwards into the throne. Immediately he heard the sound of ripping of cloth and the sobering sharp pain run across his forearm.

"My lord!"

Cersei stood immediately, while Robb and Harwin rushed to his side. Eddard looked down to see that a sharp barb on the damned iron seat had caught his arm. It had torn through the fabric of his blue long sleeve shirt and given him a nasty gash.

"I'm alright." He panted, holding his arm to his chest. "I'm alright." he reassured Robb, who had a worried hand on his shoulder.

Harwin shook his head. "I guess it's a good thing you never took that chair, my lord." He chuckled for levity.

Robb frowned. "What does that mean?" He asked.

"They say that the man who cuts himself on the throne is a man whose leadership is questioned." Eddard answered.

"That's not what I meant by it, my lord." Harwin immediately retracted.

Ned nodded with a hard swallow. "Aye … There's no reason not to question my decisions." He spoke distractedly his gaze drawn to Cersei who stood apart from the rest of them.

* * *

><p>A wall of rolling fog obscured the stars in the windless night over King's Landing. It was like a gray wall of nothing that was held over the Blackwater, besieging the city, an ominous atmosphere for a quiet night. It was too quiet, Eddard thought. The Red Keep was filled with lords and ladies from all over the kingdoms; the city filled with merchants, travelers, and adventures. All of them here to see Robert's tourney tomorrow. But there was a seeming silence that hovered over the city and people alike. The torches burned low in their holsters in the wall. The sentries seemed grim, looking into the grey nothing that looked back through them from the shadows. For all the merrymaking that should've followed with the festivities planned for the morning, there was an air of uncomfortable foreboding to what was to come —not just tomorrow, but a feeling of the beginning to an end of a world they knew. It certainly wasn't what Robert had wanted.<p>

His kingdom-wide holiday was a waste of time and money, if you had asked The Hand. It was an extravagance that the realm could little afford at the moment. Tywin Lannister might have forgiven the Crown's debts in ransom for the Kingslayer, but there was still money owed to the Iron Bank. Robert wanted to dwarf the atmosphere of the tourney at Harrenhal from their youth, with this meaningless spectacle all in the name of shaming his own wife. They'd all gather to watch the greatest knights in the realm fight in a massive melee for the honor of being the King's Champion in the trial by combat to come. It was a ceremonious title, for no one had come forward and offer their sword to Cersei as of yet. He couldn't blame them.

The Queen was guilty. Her crimes were heinous and as abominable as they were many. No man of honor, much less of sense, would choose to take up his sword for her. Yet, more and more had he been staring at Ice, his father's sword, his grandfather's sword … a sword of heroes. It was madness to think the thoughts he had been having. To be honest, it was madness to be doing what he had been doing as of late. He questioned his sanity as he questioned himself. Every night he woke to the dream of a naked and bloated Catelyn floating in her family's river, to Bran falling from a window in a high tower. Each one of them looked to him and in their dead eyes asked him why he hadn't avenged them, why did he not care.

Eddard Stark cared. He suffered from how much he cared what had happened to his family. But in that cold sweat he was comforted by soft kisses, and a smooth body that clutched to him. She'd whisper comforts to him, crawling to sit on his thighs under his sheets. She was his only comfort and also the bane of his life. She brought him his only reason in this vipers pit, his only ally to understand the plots forever being constructed against his children and himself … and yet had she been anyone else, he would've claimed her head long ago. Cersei Lannister, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the unapologetic criminal of numerous wrongs, held his heart captive.

He stood in the doorway to his bed chamber watching as the queen slept on the wife's side of a marriage bed. A lantern light still burned on an end table bathing her sleeping form in the glass light. She was truly the most beautiful woman he had ever looked upon. The sheets had only been drawn to her waist exposing the pale skin of her flat belly. Her slender arms raised above her head, slipping underneath her pillow, exposing her perfect breasts topped with thick ample nipples that rose and fell with her breath. She was any man's dream, a heavenly creature as pure and innocent as she slept. But he knew she wasn't.

There was an anger to her, a maleficent bitterness toward the world of which there was no cure it seemed. Ambitious, cunning, with the capacity for cruelty of the likes Eddard had never seen in a woman before. She had maimed his own son to protect her secrets, and she might have even killed old Jon, his mentor and second father, to protect … theirs. By all accounts he should've have been the first to stand by Robert's side and see justice done upon her. But there was history that could not be denied.

There had always been a higher duty to the realm, according to the Hand. He had left his wife twice, while with his child in her belly both times to fight Robert's wars. Ned was not a cruel man. He had never wanted to leave Catelyn alone in a place that was never her home. But Catelyn was much like the realm, a name on the list of duty, a responsibility upheld by a sense of honor. Eddard said a vow to her as he did to the realm, because it was his honor bound duty to do so. Love was for troubadours, and ladies in the maiden vaults.

There had only been one woman Eddard had ever loved; one woman that had forever haunted him through the long bloody chaos on the battlefield, and sleepless cold nights in Winterfell. If love was the bane of duty and the death of honor, then all of what made Eddard who he was, lay dead at the feet of Cersei Lannister. For his love for the queen, this unattainable dream for so many years had brought into question all of who he was and would be.

These months together was like being trapped in a moment in time between a boy and girl many long years ago in the Gods Wood of the Red Keep. Their love transcended points of view, and differences. Yet, sadly he was beginning to realize that there was no future for them. When this tourney and trial business was over, he would resign and take the rest of his family home. But he knew that he could not take Cersei with him. This radiant beauty, fierce and prideful, would wither in the colds of the north like a summer flower. He had seen from his own banner men's woes of bringing a southern beauty to such a harsh country. Yet, the Starks of Winterfell could not stay here either; his place, and his son's place was in Winterfell not this smelly, dangerous city. He had come here to protect the king and his own family. But the King had betrayed him and in doing so Eddard had failed his wife. So now his only wish was to return home. But to what? He asked himself.

He couldn't stay any longer and yet, he couldn't leave the queen to her fate at the vengeful hands of Robert's wrath. His love fought a war with his reason, his devotion with his honor. What was he to do tomorrow, when Robert named his champion and issued his challenged before the whole Kingdom? He knew what an honorable man would do, what a Hand of the King would do, what a father would do …

But what would Eddard Stark do?

"It's late for that my lord …"

Fierce emerald eyes watched Eddard from the bed as he held a half sheathed great sword in his hands. He turned to face her, the smoky colored metal glimmering in the lantern light. The Queen turned on her side, propping her head on an upraised hand. She seemed sleepy, but alert as she studied him.

"They say that nothing holds an edge like Valyrian Steel … and yet you sharpen it anyway." She was fascinated with the Stark heirloom. If it was one thing that would always hold the queen's fancy it was a blade. Eddard had always noticed when he let her hold his sword, that her eyes had become electrified, her posture upright. She seemed incensed by the feeling of a weapon in her hand. Afterward, she would not rest till he had spilled his seed on her belly. It was something in the primal power of the sword that always overcame her baser instincts.

"It's never bad thing to be prepared, my lady." He sheathed the great sword. His look was pained and filled with sorrow. It didn't go beyond the queen's notice. There was a frown the wrinkled her brow.

She wouldn't address what she knew was bothering him. It was the uncertainty of tomorrow and what it could bring. He was worried for her, he cared, and at this point he might be the only one who still did. So for that she would love him forever. She lifted the furs. "Come to bed …" She scooted back to give him room.

"I wouldn't sleep." He rebuffed her.

She watched him lean Ice against the wall. "I didn't say you would." She replied with a command in her voice.

It was the dauntless beauty in the candle light, the comfortable nature of her resting in his bed. He began to understand all of what he had lost the night he rejected her in the Gods Wood. There was painful clairvoyance that this could've been their life and maybe could still be. In another world, in some other universe, every night she'd ask him to come to bed and share the night with her. He thought when he lost Catelyn that his heart couldn't hurt any worse.

Suddenly there was so much he wanted to say to her, so much he wanted to do. It couldn't continue this way, but couldn't end the way fate had designed. He turned to the sword again like an old faithful companion. Ice had cut down so many great knights in its day and Eddard Stark began to wonder with such great hope if both sword and it's crippled soldier still had at least one more fight in them. But his wolf's blood stirring in his veins turned to naught in sight of the Hand of the King's badge that sat on his dresser. In its cold golden paint was ice water over the fire of passion in his heart. He had become conflicted again.

"Ned …"

It was said as soft as a whisper. He slowly turned back to the queen to her eyes that had become glassed over. There was resignation and just a hint of fear in her face, an emotion she never let anyone see. The Lord of Winterfell had not been the only one thinking of tomorrow. It had become obvious only now that without her family, without her children … Cersei Lannister was utterly alone.

"Please … come to bed." She shook her head through tears.

No more thinking of a future that could never be, no thinking of what tomorrow could bring. She wanted only now, only the night. She wanted him, the way she had wanted him all those years ago in the God's Wood. She was afraid of the dawn and the unknown before them as she had been once.

"Take me, Lord Stark."

She spoke the words through tears that had echoed through his most pleasant dreams and most haunting nightmares. Words that he associated with the worst hurts and most painful mistakes he had made in his life. A boy had walked away from her the last time she uttered them. But now a man would not make the same mistake.

When he took her in his arms and captured her lips to his. There was no Eddard Stark, no Cersei Lannister. There was no tourney, no dead wife, and no murdered son. There was no Lord of Winterfell, or Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. For one sleepless night there was only a not so young man anymore making love to a lonely beauty that, after all the long painful years, still liked the way he smiled.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Author's Notes<strong>

_"After All These Years - Journey" _

_Despite what was thought, I never gave up on this story. The problem I have with posting anything not Sarah Connor Chronicles, is the lack of motivation. I look at the Numbers and Favorites this story gets and it means a lot. But it also took over a year just to get a handful of reviews. I'm not a glory hog, and I'm not looking for my Ego to be stroked. Nor have I ever asked for reviews in all the years I've been doing this. But, your feedback is what really inspires me to continue. _

_So if you can find it in your heart to leave some feedback, it would be helpful to the cause. _

_Don't worry, if old RR Martin sues, I'll say all of you are just my fake accounts. _


	6. Interlude: Copperhead Road

**Interlude**

_Copperhead Road _

A deep shadow fell over the rolling fog off the Black Water, leaving the open mouth of the channel like the chilled bowels of a large hollow cave. The slightest slosh of water, the chuckled result of a harmless jest, carrying over miles of open water, it was a quiet night of a predator's delight. There was a cold wind that swept from the mainland. The mixture of foggy moisture and frigid late-autumn freeze was like a wet towel after a cold bath. There was something in the air that came unnaturally as the wet cold swirled over the inky black water of the bay. The waves sloshed and chopped loudly. In the distance, the ring of a distant buoy echoed over the empty water like the ominous sound of a Sept bell signaling high noon— a perpetual last gasp before the duel.

Obscured from the light of the stars and the low hanging moon, the figure of a slender skiff glided with a gentle slosh over the sea like a baker's knife through a fresh loaf. Its pure white of the crisp new sails flapped, and the thick ropes creaked in the toss of the surf line. The meeting of fresh and salt water created a friction that unsettled the rhythm of the already dangerous journey. On the sparsely populated deck there was a tense, uneasy silence that spread from the collection of dark Summer Islander faces. They had been on edge since the night they helped their cargo fight their way out of the Royal Navy's trap at the port of Duskendale. The running scrapes and barely escapes from Westros to Bravos, and now back again had flayed everyone's nerves on the ship.

Below the deck, in the humid, stinking barracks of swinging hammocks not an eye was closed. Many of the salty blooded men's minds were on the gold promised just a half an hour away, some on the many masochistic and pessimistic thoughts that plagued the many seasoned sailor that had their guts turn. There was something about this night that didn't sit well with any of them. A witch was in the wind, her foreign tongue speaking shadows and praying against them, as the wheel of destiny rolled on toward the uncertain future.

But even below them, in the deepest and darkest places of a ship built for these elicit enterprises, hidden by a hollow barrel there was a different energy. Not a positive energy, not even a worst energy, but a grimmer attitude. For the sailors above, when the met port, they would be paid and leave on the morning tide, to chase the sunrise. For the three souls sitting below, this journey does not end when their boots touched the rocks in the shadow of the grand red fortress beyond the wall of damp fog. When they touched dry land, it was just another leg on a perilous adventure.

In the tight humid confines filled with shelved barrels filled with strong liquor and foreign narcotics the dim of a single candle lit the smugglers hold. In the light a blade with dark steely ripples glinted as the wet stone scraped on the surface in time with the creaking lull of the back and forth in the toss of the watery abyss around them. Dark grey eyes seemed focused on their work, sharpened and cleaning an ancient weapon that had spilled much blood in the time it had been given to him, Wilding, Muteness Black Brother, Frey, Tully, and now Royal sailor. The further he tried to do the right thing, the further he was sinking into darkness and compromise. His handsome face was implacable and shadowed in the dim light as he thought of all the battles he's fought. He thought of an inn at a crossroads where a line had been crossed. It was where his childhood of disappointments and anger met with his honor and manhood. It was a place where he had lost all of them. He held two women that had been kissed by fire as they died that night. One cursed him, and the other hated him with her last breath.

Now all that mattered was the mission, was a letter carried by raven, all that mattered now to Jon Snow was the answers that had been promised at the end. When he had them, he would face the things that had been done, that he had done. He'd wear the hangman's necklace or feel the kiss of his brother's own steel after he had been satisfied and not before. If it were to end here in this watery grave or on the field … he'd chase his beautiful damsel, the golden haired tormentor across all the seven hells of her seven gods and that of his forefathers till she gave him all the answers he sought, all the answers she promised in exchange for her life.

He thought of all of his father's lectures in his youth, tales of honor, of duty. But what was all that to a man that had none to claim for himself. A motherless bastard, cursed by his father's lady, raised in the shadow of an ancient name, but had none for himself. Day after day thinking of what he would've given for just one ounce of reassurance that came from a name of his own. For just one moment knowing who he was, and why he existed. He loved his father, but Eddard Stark had no idea what it was like to be a bastard, to be a man desperate for truth as a waterless vagabond in the great wastes of the east. When baited with all of which he desperately hoped for, a man like Jon Snow knew no such thing as vows or honor.

His hand ran along the blade with a rhythmic scrape and in the beat he closed his eyes and remembered.

_A boy stood in the lobby of her chambers looking on as the queen's handmaidens packed away the many trunks of her clothing, and belongings. Outside her window, the sound of the chaos in the yard echoed into the room. Far off, a wolf howled long and mournfully outside a tower window. _

"_Your Grace?" _

_He was a tall boy of seventeen with thick black curls and dark gray eyes. He looked more of a Stark than any of the other children, and yet the irony was that he wasn't a Stark by name. _

_The golden haired beauty looked up from her vanity as one of her ladies-in-waiting combed her long, blond waves. She wore a simple silk gown, her milky bare skin was on display, and she wasn't decent for visitors. _

"_You, get out of here wolf cur!" Ser Meryn Trant stepped forward, drawing his blade at the teen. The boy took a step back at first, but at the sight of steel he stepped forward angrily, challenging the knight. He might have been a bastard boy, but no one commanded or barred his passage, especially in his own chamber._

_After their meeting in the yard, Cersei Lannister had moved her chambers away from the King's, and into Jon's. The boy had to uproot and move in with Robb; he thought it cruel that he had to move his chambers when no one else had too. He, however, never knew that many nights the queen lay in his bed, clutching his pillow, savoring his sent. _

"_Ser Meryn!" The Queen's voice was as loud and commanding as a litter driver's whip. "What do you think you're doing?" She asked, her tone dripping with disdain for her sworn shield. _

_The man's small hard eyes turned to his queen wordlessly, surprised at her tone. "You're not decent for anyone my queen, much less a bastard boy, lord's seed or not." He said with a burning dislike for the boy standing ready to defend himself. _

_Cool green eyes found Jon from his reflection in the mirror, she gave him a beautiful disarming smile. "Jon, have you ever wanted to be a Knight in the King's Guard?" She asked with a tilt of head. The youth frowned at the question. _

"_What boy hasn't, Your Grace?" He answered cautiously, not sure where she was going with her line of questioning._

_Her eyes grew fierce, turning to Meryn Trant, who seemed as perplexed as Jon about her question. "If this simpering fool bares naked steel against you again, you have my permission to strike him, and if just so happens you kill him … I might just Knight and give you his white cloak." Her tone was dangerous, more dangerous than anyone had ever heard the queen use before. _

"_My queen …" _

"_Get out!" Her voice was commanding and her temperament short. "All of you, I have a visitor, I wish to speak with him in peace. Get out." Everyone obeyed without a word. In passing, the white scaled knight bumped shoulders with Jon, making him stumbled back a step. Quiet, dark eyes followed Trant out the door, till it closed behind him. _

_The room was quiet as the queen stood and padded to the boy, who stood nervously in her presence. The youth hadn't been alone with her but once, and he wasn't sure what the protocol between a bastard and a queen who gave him his name was. He wasn't a lord, and yet not small folk. _

"_What can I do for you?" She gave him another disarming smile. Jon flustered just a moment, it was rare that a woman had given him such a smile. _

"_I'm sorry …" _

"_Why?" She tilted her head. _

"_I … I'm going to the wall today." He blurted out, before he had time to think. _

_The queen's face fell, twisting in some unimaginable sadness and panic at his statement. "Really …" She looked down at her feet. "Have you committed some great crime that I am unaware of?" She asked looking back at him with disapproving eyes._

_Something twisted sharply in his stomach at her tone, a second of indecision plagued him. "No, your grace …" He opened his mouth, but paused, not willing to tell her the reason. _

_Her eyes searched his; he felt her gaze go through him like a chilled wind through a thin doublet. "It's not what you think it is …" She said in a low tone._

_A fire was lit in his gut, who the hell did she think she was … and why did he care so much what she thought? _

"_The Starks have manned the wall for thousands of years!" _

"_And you're not a Stark!" _

_Her voice was loud and frustrated, a mix of anxiousness and disappointment. Jon felt as if he had been gutted by her comment. People had been telling him for years what he could and couldn't do, the Wall had always been somewhere he knew he could belong and make something of himself, now someone was telling him he shouldn't go there._

"_Where will I go, your grace?" He asked loosing himself in anger. "To Kings Landing? To join your King's Guard?" He asked with gritted teeth. _

_Wear it like armor, and it will never be used to hurt you. He thought of her brother's words. _

"_I'm a bastard your grace … and will never have a place in your world." He said with conviction. "I may not have a name, but I have skills and I want to make something of myself. I'm going to the Wall where men like me can serve the realm with honor!" He wasn't sure why he was diving into his most intimate thoughts and telling her in such an insolent tone. But then, what was the queen going to do? Send him to the Wall? _

_The queen glared at him for a long time, her eyes lighting and hardening with each passing moment. It was a long chilled silence, before she spoke. _

"_Well, I see there's no changing your mind …" She turned and walked toward one of her trunks at the foot of his bed. After a moment she turned, seeing that he wasn't following her. _

"_Come …" She said in a hardened voice. The boy found himself following with the scrape of boots. _

_Bending over, she popped the lid to her trunk and began pulling out folded gowns and boxes of jeweled necklaces and other ornaments. _

"_I assume you came here because of your shit steel." She called behind her. When Jon didn't answer, she gave a toothy grin to herself bent over her trunk. After a moment she found what she was looking for, griping the item wrapped in a thirty three year old crimson and gold cloth. Standing straight, she turned, showing it to the boy. _

"_When my father learned my lady mother was pregnant with me and my brother, her belly was greatly swollen, our mother's maester was certain of twins, not knowing the sex, our father commissioned for two weapons to be made, one for Jaime …" She undid the cloth, slowly. "One for me." She held it out to him. _

_The scabbard was red, with silver inlay at the top. The handle of the two handed sword was covered with fine red leather; the pummel was silver and flat with a weighted ball at the end for balance. Jon took the weapon carefully, the feeling the blade had when he held it, was as if he had found the sword he never knew he needed, or should have. When he drew it from its scabbard,, the silvery blade glimmered in the low, northern morning, reflecting on the walls of his room. _

"_It's castle forged, the best steel money and prestige can buy … had I been a man, I would wear this at my side, like Jaime does his." She said watching him with the sword passively. _

_Jon's awe of the sword was halted when he caught her eye. Clearing his throat he sheathed her weapon and offered it back to her. "It's a fine sword your grace." He motioned it to her. _

"_It's yours …" She pressed it back into his chest. _

"_Mine?" He found himself asking._

"_This weapon is one of a kind … you say you want glory and honor … keep it by your side, and you will find all you seek." _

_Jon stared down at the weapon with a frown then back at the queen. "I don't understand …?" He trailed off. _

"_Don't understand what?" She tilted her head. _

"_Why would you give me this?" _

_She paused and for the second and last time she touched the boy's cheek fondly. _

"_So you have a piece of me and I … a piece of mind." _

When he opened his eyes, he still saw her golden hair and beautiful face and with every second of them in his mind and blood he wished that he had his father's strength. That in his heart there was strength in his convictions, not led astray by all the things that true born sons took for granted and regal beauties could promise. But Jon had betrayed every vow he spoke to his father's gods. He knew the warmth of a woman, of the enemy, taken her to wife in her own way. He had slain his father's allies under the protection of the inn's hospitality. A lesser man might have made an excuse that they were the first to draw their blades. But Jon would take responsibility for what had been done to cause it. Between the Imps cutting prods and Jon's wilding lover's hot words that publically called into question Lady Catelyn's virtue in the defense of his own honor. Jon had not raised a blade against his step-mother. Lady Catelyn and her brother had been murdered by their own father's bannermen before he could save them. But even without a hand to strike it was his own fault that he let the weasel faced murderers push him into open conflict. It had been a senseless fight that framed him in the laws of gods and men, and costing the lives of most of his friends and … and Ygritte. Even now his broken vows were risking much of innocent men. Out there somewhere Stannis Baratheon was prowling the Black Water and Narrow Sea for him and his companions. He'd kill everyman on this ship to see the two bastard outlaws and their fat friend hang from the walls of Maegor's holdfast.

He looked up from his work to keep watch of their confined traveling space. Curled contently was the large shaggy body of Ghost. Across from Jon the large beast silently breathed in and out, eyes closed. But under his observant stare, the direwolf felt its master and awoke from the alert slumber. When grey human and blood red wolf eyes met their gaze linked a connection between man and beast that had seldom been seen south of the neck. In the large wolf's eyes, John could feel its heart beat, feel the depression within it. Ghost was an animal, born to roam free in the snowy and fringed landscapes of the true north, where it was born and raised. Even in the damp chill that had invaded the south it was still too hot for the animal. He had also been kept on a ship for three days. But for what days were to humans it seemed like decades for a rare beast like the albino direwolf. In the confines of this wooden hull, surrounded by sea, Jon was starting to feel his friend lie low. The wolf had forgotten what it was like to taste mountain air, and the warm blood of the hunt. The young man gave a feeling of reassurance within his breast for the wolf to feel. Soon they'd be on land and the wolf would remember who he is, and what it felt to be free once more. Upon feeling his master's comforts within their unnatural stare down, the wolf lay his head back upon his paws and closed his eyes once more.

To accompany this wordless conversation was the horrid sawing noise that came from the sound of cutting boards of a group of builders. Even in his grim mood, Jon gave just the slightest of smirks at the thought of how nervous their crewmen must feel to hear the loud snoring noises. Samwell Tarly was lying flat on his back, his head pillowed into the side of the great white animal. Covered in their furs, he looked and sounded like a great harmless bear slumbering in for the long winter. Jon figured his best friend might be the only man in a hundred miles asleep tonight. Before they left Winterfell with Bran's blessing, he had told Sam that he did not have to come with the rest of them. That he could stay with Gilly and the baby as he had promised the night of their battle with Mance at the wall. But his faithful friend would not let him undertake such an adventure on his own. Even with thousands of men and gold sent by Tywin Lannister to take their place on the wall and hundreds more to finance this seemingly doomed rescue, Samwell was still convinced that Jon needed him. Now hundreds of leagues from the woman he loved, the large boy still would not leave him. Not even after they buried their friends on the Kings Road and said farewell to the Imp and his sell-sword. There was something comfortingly familiar to have Sam with him, even after the loss of Ygritte, Pyp, Grenn, Delores, and Ser Rodrik, it still felt like home to have the large young man. Even in the new surrounding and the danger Sam helped him still feel like himself.

But at the noise of clumsy rattles of inexperienced hands trying to sharpen a blade, he knew that he couldn't fully be himself again. That even on this adventure, this suicidal mission he still had responsibilities that were new. Jon looked next to him to find the biggest of them he had ever undertaken. Young, small, naïve, but stout hearted. His squire Tommen had also kept the road with them. The small boy sat next to Jon in their crouched quarters quietly sharpening the blade of the sword he had given him.

Out of all the people that the young crow did not want to come with them, it was young Tommen. Even before they had left the Wall for Winterfell, the boy was wanted. He was the sole heir to house Lannister, the last surviving son of an unholy union. King Robert would pay his considerable weight in gold for the head of the boy. After privately accepting Casterly Rock's offered assistance Jon had been approached and consecutively said no three different times to the young lord when he volunteered to come with the group of companions. It wasn't till a quiet night when his mind had been changed.

He had been planning their Journey on Maester Luwin's maps while Ygritte slept in his bed. He remembered just watching her, how queer the idea many years ago that a beautiful girl would be sleeping in between the very sheets of his very own bed. That one day a nameless bastard that felt doomed to be alone forever would someday have a woman who loved him, and didn't care who knew it. There had been a rap at his door that had come softly. He had grown annoyed at the sight of Tommen. The blond boy didn't ask for his permission to squire for him. Instead he told Jon at the fire side of his weeks in captivity at King Robert's hands. How scared he was every day, how his sister cried herself to sleep every night … and the vile things that the King had done to his cousin and brother. He retold the horrors of how the oaf he thought was his father had raped his mother in front of his sister and himself. The boy was in tears, though he tried not to show it when he spoke of the fear that his mother was back in that horrible place. He could not sleep till he had rescued her, delivered her safely to her father at Casterly Rock.

"Let him, come."

Both turned from their chairs by the fire to the bed, where the wildling spear wife lay naked, wrapped in sheets, while staring at the ceiling. She never said why they should, but in her voice there was a simple command. In her mind and wildling sensibilities this boy had the right to revenge on the man who hurt his family, no matter how old he may be. When they departed, the girl looked after him even when no one told her too. Something in the way he told his story had touched the seemingly hardened girl that night. From that day on she publically and relentlessly mocked Jon with her impressions of him when he was too hard on the boy during lessons. At meals on the road she gave Tommen portions of her own food. If the young would-be-prince was to be Jon's squire and Ygritte, his companion forever, it seemed that she felt a need to bring him into their lives fully.

Now Jon watched the boy as he attempted to sharpen the familiar Casterly Rock steel with the red leather hilt and silver pummel. He had bright green eyes and gold curls that made him every bit of a Lannister. But unlike his family who rarely broke from their inherited smugness, there was a deep sadness to the boy. In him was a melancholy that no child so young should have to bare. Even before they departed he had seen it. But now, after the fight at the Inn, it seemed to have lingered in his heart, like a cold in a weakened man's chest. Jon knew it well, and it made him wonder if every bastard in the world felt like they did? He asked himself if the crushing lonesome of this world ever stopped pressing against them.

Maybe it was what had made Ygritte love Jon that attached her to the youngest Lannister. In her dark eyes she saw the same naive bravery within a tortured but true heart. Whatever was the reason, Jon felt a deeper attachment to the young boy now, than ever. There was a commitment deep within to be to the child what no one else had been to him at his age. Jon could protect him from this world till he was old enough to teach him about it. After all the roads hardships his only wish now was that someday when the boy becomes a lord himself, legitimized or not, he would be a better man than his teacher turned out to be. On that faithful day, Jon Snow would know he had done at least one thing right in his life.

He laid Long Claw in his lap. "Here …" The young man took the queen's sword from her son's hand. "Gently, like this." He showed the boy as he smoothed the leather against the sharpened blade. "Like you're stroking it." his voice was gentle. He repeated the motion several more times, before he handed the boy back the blade.

Green eyes narrowed thoughtfully, before he nodded. "Like petting a cat?" He asked in conformation. The Night's Watchmen waited for a long moment, watching the boy simulate the action, before he spoke.

"Yeah … like that." He frowned in puzzlement. It was a strange journey how he came to this point. From fighting with the savage and free Wildings of Mance, returning back to the hardened men of the Night's Watch, and now to be talking of kittens and small animals with a boy who would one day inherit the richest of the kingdoms. Years pent up in Winterfell, worrying he'd never see the world beyond the grey, cold walls. Who would have thought he'd be in the smugglers hold of a pirate ship, sneaking into the capital, while instructing a prince on the finer art of sharpening a blade gifted to Jon by a queen in terms of petting kittens. Whatever he could say about himself, between loving and bedding a wilding spear wife, to seeing the great Titan of Bravos … Jon Snow had lived.

THUEM!

The floor shook suddenly. Swords clattered to the floor and Tommen fell into Jon's lap in the violent tremor. The ship rocked viciously in aftershock before swaying back into its original rhythm.

"Gilly, the baby!" Sam shouted in alarm as he startled awake, furs flying in readiness. The large youth kept his head on a swivel searching the dark contents of their abode in misremembering confusion. But he had a light of sudden resurgence when he spied Jon, helping Tommen back to his side. Like scolded cats, the boys sheathed their swords quickly.

"Jon! What is going …?"

THUEM!

"… ON!"

The ship rocked again in another large quake that rolled the boy away from the direwolf, while plastering the dark haired knight and blond squire against their wall with painful thuds. Jon was able to catch Sam and steady him as the ship recovered. Suddenly there were heavy and frightened thumps running in full speed above them. In the distant a bell was being rung in alarm, a shrill foreign voice screaming in the barracks as they rang.

"Sam!" Jon shouted in wordless command, as he began digging through the jumbled clothing spilled to the floor. He picked up a dyed black leather coat and slipped it on over his white undershirt. The large boy still on his hands and knees began chasing a sliding jerkin across the floor.

THEUM!

The poor rounded young man cursed as he slid back first into a barrel shelf with just one arm in his jerkin. The black haired leader grabbed an empty torch holder to steady him. When the shake passed, he looked to Tommen who alertly grabbed Long Claw and tossed it to John in one smooth motion. Unrolling the leather of the belt, he buckled it as the noise from above intensified. At this point Ghost had in his mouth, Samwell's sword and waited impatiently for the large boy to come take it as he rushed forward. Seeing the teeth bared at him, the boy sneered at the wolf. He snatched the sheathed weapon from the direwolf's mouth. "Not all of us have claws you know!" He said defensively, buckling his own sword belt clumsily.

Digging through his meager possessions he began stuffing them back into his pack, little hands, quickly, efficiently handing them to him. He paused on a long bow wrapped around a white and grey fur line quiver of twenty to thirty self-fletched arrows. It whiffed with her sent, the musty perfume that he'd inhale over a tight, slender naked pale body. When he closed his eyes it was like being stabbed in the heart all over again, and he could hardly feel himself being able to move.

"_Ygritte! No, no … it's alright, you're alright … SAM! Stay with me!" _

"_Your lady-kneeler-motha is vicious cuent, you know that?!"_

"_She wasn't my mother." _

"_Good, than I wouldn't have felt guilty … ugh, foocking her tight Arse with me knife!""_

"_Gods Jon!" _

"_Sam … SAM! Listen to me, go get all the wine you can find, have Tommen and Tyrion heat up that caldron!" _

"_It's going to take more than wine … to get me to foock you tonight, Jon Snoew!"_

"_Don't talk! Just save your strength, I can save you!" _

"_Heh … You know … nothing … Jon … Snoew!" _

"_YGRITTE!" _

THEUM!

The ship shook, causing the young man to lose his train of thought. His head crashed into the boards, sobering him back to the situation at present. Both his companions were watching, waiting for him to say something. With a deep breath, between tremors, he grabbed the bow and quiver, and tossed them to his squire. Finding a holding for his footing, he turned to the blond lordling, quickly stuffing things into their pack.

"Tommen!" He called over the distant roar of an explosion. The boy was attentive at the calling of his name. "You take the stuff and get above!" He shouted. "If you see even a trickle of water seeping in, you get on deck!" He commanded. The young boy nodded with a frightened obedience. With just a half a moment to spare he used it to place his hand on the boy shoulder to steady him inwardly as outwardly. They exchanged a meaningful look, and the raven haired youth gave him a curt nod of confidence.

Leading the way toward the narrow steps up, he turned back. "Watch him!" He pointed to the boy, but spoke to red albino eyes. The direwolf made no sound, but within Jon he could feel the agreement cemented in the small nip of a wet tongue nervously over fangs. A pelt of white fur was standing on end and within his breast was the aggression for battle that was shared with his master.

Both former men of the Night's Watch flew up the steps quickly. Together they threw open the smuggler's hatch, filling their lungs with less stale air, breathing in the confused and panicked energy surging through the barracks. Dark skinned men were flying through the large wooden room, pulling on vests and boots. Jon and Sam navigated through the chaos and mass of bodies to get above on deck.

THUEM!

The next quake knocked everyone off their feet. Bodies of sailors and oarsmen went tumbling on the slickened floors. Hands grabbed hammock netting, and other men, creating a safety chain of bodies, till the calm settled back. Once again the bell at the entrance of the bowels rang aggressively as officers shouted orders. Men got to their feet and rushed toward the stairs that led above. In the doorway that led outside, a boy no older than Tommen was handing out sword belts, and bows and quivers to exiting men that rushed by.

The night was cold and damp, but the thicket of heavy fog was starting to dwindle into visibility. In the distance beyond the rolling earthly clouds a collection of thousands of lights began to dimly become visible. They looked like hundreds of swarms of fireflies, standing stationary, waiting for them. Above, on the tall mast were the shouts of just visible specs. Ropes and jibs strained and rippled as the great white sail began to fold.

FUMP!

There was a loud release of pressure that echoed like a roar over the open inky water. Above them there was an eerie, bone chilling noise of the whistling of something big cutting through the night air. Jon and Sam snapped their heads above as a glowing ball of light appeared through the foggy air rapidly. The fireball touched down only fifty yards from the bow of the ship. They watched the flaming pitch land in the ocean with a mighty splash, soaking all on deck with the iced water that matched the channel's name. In the wake the small ship rocked violently one way and then the other.

Jon sprinted to the side, Samwell at his heels. Both young men leaned over the edge, bracing themselves on the thick ropes, to look out for the origin of the fire. In the distance, only several hundred yards away was the frightening sight of two large sources of red light twisting to and fro behind them. The two lanterns hanging off the port and starboard sides of their predator's towering war galley made it seem in the blinding fog like a great and terrible sea beast slithering in hungry pursuit of their small smuggler's ship.

"Come on!" Jon grabbed Samwell back. Quickly they dodged and pushed past a terribly busy deck toward the center. At the helm of this pirate ship was a short, older man with dark skin. He wore golden embroidered clothing from Lys, and a grand hat of matching velvet with a large white feather. When the boys got to him he was shouting harshly in a hard spoken foreign language to a shirtless dark skinned man made of pure strapping muscle. He wore decorative silver piercings on a broad face, and had large illuminating white teeth.

"What in the seven hells is going on?!" Jon shouted to the captain over another whistling sound. This time the pitch exploded, though well above them. It seemed that whoever was chasing them, had been hoping to hit their sail.

Sallador Saan looked up from his departing first mate to the two young men dressed in all black and rolled his eyes. "I fucked a red priestess, and she's prayed to her fire god to rain his wrath upon me for making her cum too soon!" the pirate shouted at the two young men. Jon and Sam frowned and traded a look of confusion. Sallador cursed their slow wits with a growl under his breath. "What do you think is happening, Crows!" he yelled at them. "Robert's Hammer caught up with us!" He motioned to the looming shadow behind them.

Hearing the news, Jon stepped up angrily. "You said we lost Stannis on the Titans Straights, outside of Bravos!" He shouted over another thunderous explosion from above.

The brash seaman just groaned in annoyance as he steered his vessel. "Well obviously he found us in the last place he looked, Wolf-boy!" He shouted at them.

"You said at that bathhouse that you could outrun the Royal Navy! We're paying you for your ships, not your mouth, Pirate!" Jon snapped, barring his teeth at the man.

The dark skinned captain turned in anger. "One more comment like that and you and the fat boy will be swimming to your brother fucker!" He threatened. But after a moment of tense bravado a devil-may-care attitude replaced it as he turned back to the sea. "Plus, they haven't caught us yet!" he bragged confidently to the two young men.

Jon snarled. "They're going too if you don't move this piece of shit!" he motioned angrily.

Sallador did a double take. "You don't call my ship a piece of shit!" He pushed Jon distractedly with one hand. Sam quickly held his friend back, before they all lost sight of the real problem that was starting to take shape from obscurity behind them.

As Jon and Sallador Saan argued, the now rhythm splashes of oars touched water. The sound of a deep base rhythmic drum shook the deck in time with the splashes of sea water. Sam turned to the captain in worry when he heard the noise of their rowing as the fog began to thin out quickly, the large sprawling red walled city's glow was now becoming more visible in their race toward it.

"You raised your sails!" Sam shouted shrilly. "A ship this small is not going to outrun a war galley in rowing speed!" He argued. "And if they catch us in the open, out of this fog we'll be done for!" He pointed out in panic.

The stressed captain, who had already one second guesser, obviously didn't need another when he took off his hat and proceeded to strike Sam with it irritably. "Finding a path through these rocks hiding in the mouth of the Black Water, is not like sneaking into the kitchens at Castle Black fat-boy!" He shouted. "We need a steady speed to maneuver with!" He slapped his grand hat back on his head crookedly. "A ship that big can't follow, where we are going!" He huffed. Samwell's face fell at the name lobbed at him after his bereavement with the frilly hat.

Like a figure leaping from a cloud of dense smoke. The small smuggler ship glided out of the wall of thick fog in a puff and into open visibility of the city. From the walls of the Red Keep the sight of the racing sea voyager was accompanied with the fiery glows of arcing fireballs being shot from inside the grey clouds and landing wildly and carelessly all over the water front stalking its elusive target. Thunderous explosions broke apart awkward rock formations and caused the awakening of new candle light to appear in every darkened window in Maegor's Holdfast.

From Jon's view they could see the outline of the massive docks and harbor of king's Landing ahead. The young man had never seen anything like it before in his entire life. There were more lights and shapes than he had ever seen before. There must have been every type of ship under the sun docked in the massive wooden structure. Looming above everything like an unkept promise was the mighty symbol of royal power. Commanding the sea and city was the Red Keep which looked imposing and impregnable to the young hero with its high walls, the color of blood and covered in ivy. His sight was drawn to the highest tower in the castle, where a single light still flickered, like a guide. He couldn't explain it, but it felt as if someone inside the room was watching him, could feel him from where they stood.

"What's that?!"

Straight ahead were two more pairs of reptilian eyes slithering toward them from the docks. However, backed from the city lights this time the outline of two more war galleys came into focus as they gobbled choppy waves to intercept them. Both galleys had the Royal markings, but the one on the right had the unique sigil of a ship on a field of an onion on its grimy sail.

Their host quickly swatted Sam's pointing finger away. "There's two more coming!" He answered. "Davos is trying to cut us off before we get to the straights!" He announced with widened eyes.

"Are they going too?" Jon stood shoulder to shoulder with their captain. Sallador just looked back to the younger man and refused to speak. The long stem of the Royal flagship pierced through the thick obscurity and into the open as the large beastly looking ship began to take shape into a massive shadow behind them.

After a moment the old pirate spoke gravely after the onion ship and it's comrade overtook their destination. "It's seems they've laid a trap for you!" He said pulling his hat off in hopelessness.

"How?!" Sam demanded. "We never told anyone how we were going to get here!" He turned to look out over the open sea to the gaining war galleys cruising effortlessly toward them on the horizon.

Sallador turned to Jon in particular. "It seems that Stannis Baratheon's Red Woman knew we were coming and worst … It seems that she told them what you're planning to do." He looked ahead with a defeated shake of his head. "King Robert would stop at nothing to see his queen's head on a spike and that starts with seeing that you're dead, boy." He scratched his stubbled head.

In that moment Jon Snow flashed to all he lost on the road to here. He thought how simple a few scribbled words on a piece of paper could lead to these desperate moments. How one simple promise to give a man the key to his entire existence could lead to such utter personal ruin to himself and those around him. But even on the edge of oblivion he would not compromise himself, nor let his friends have died in vein. From the seven hells to the very seat of her gods, he'd get his answers from the woman sleeping just in front of him beyond those red walls.

He turned to the pirate with a grim smirk on his determined face. "Ay, we wouldn't want to make too easy for the Baratheon Boar would we?" he asked with a dark humor. Upon seeing the kindred soul of such familiar grim tidings that only the greatest of pirates ever found themselves in, Sallador Saan felt suddenly revived in spirit.

"Sallador Saan never gives up, my friend!" His smile of arrogance seemed to mirror a mad genius burning within his dark eyes. "Nor will we hang from the walls of that ugly castle tonight!" He announced with a self-confident chuckle.

"Are you mad?!" Sam looked from both Jon to the pirate in fear and alarm of the idea of being the only sane man left in a suicidal situation.

The captain raised a finger toward the large boy. "When I give my word, I honor that word." He explained. "I promised the Dwarf that I'd safely deliver you to Kings Landing, and I will do so. If I promise that, I, Sallador Saan would take a shit on Renly Baratheon's boots. The sword swallower would have to buy himself a new wardrobe!" He slapped the helm.

Jon raised an eyebrow. "I really hope that wasn't one of the conditions for getting us here." He commented.

With a chuckle of mirth the pirate wheeled back. "For the gold the Imp is offering for your passage, I'd fuck the fat boy if he told me too." He offered cheekily.

Jon glanced over toward a distracted and somewhat nervous looking Samwell Tarly who was suddenly back at the mention of his name. "What did he say?" He frowned in a panicked voice.

Jon turned back to their host. "I wish you wouldn't." Was all the young man said in response.

Sallador shrugged distractedly. "I'm a lonely man … and you could be fucking the ugliest or the most beautiful creature your mind can conjure when you blow out the candles. In the dark it all feels the same, Lord Crow." He wiggled his eyebrows to a very confused Sam who broke in.

"What's the procedure for ramming?"

Sallador turned to Jon with the strangest and most suggestive of smiles. The boy just shook his head with an unamused glare. "What?" He turned toward his friend.

Sam looked from the pirate captain to Jon. "What's the Royal procedure for being rammed?!" He asked hurriedly as Robert's Hammer appeared out of fog and into view. Its massive sails and large body dwarfed even the other war galleys in the fleet. The towering fortress on water was topped with a banner of a crowned stag and her sail a flaming heart.

"You want to ram that?!" Sallador shouted in disbelief.

Jon shook his head. "Sam, we don't stand a chance against those ships in a stand up fight!" he shouted over a new set of explosions that were now closer than ever.

The large boy sighed heavily. "I'm not suggesting that we fight them! Just tell me what would happen if we attempted to ram them!" he forced.

Turning to their host, the pirate ripped off his hat again and scratched his scalp. "Their starboard and port sides are armored, they'd angle themselves so that the ram would hit the armor!" He'd explained.

Suddenly Jon saw what Sam did. "Yes …" He took a step forward and watched the gap between the two approaching ships. "If we make it look like we're going to ram them …" He started to explain to the captain.

Sam picked up for Jon. "They'll angle to deflect and we can split them!" He made a cutting motion in the gap between the two galleys.

For a long moment the pirate looked at the gap and then between the two boys, before back at the gap. "If we go in between them, their archers will tear us to pieces!" He argued.

"Not if we go in at full speed!" Jon cut in.

Sallador did a double take. "Drop sail? Are you a nitwit, boy? If we drop sail, Stannis Baratheon's pitch will catch it and this entire ship will go up in flames!" He shouted at him.

"If we draw him close and force him to chase. We'll be too close for pitch." Jon offered.

There was a negative look to the pirate as he continued his routine of stares. The young man suddenly grabbed the captain by his coat desperately. "Do you want to die hanging from those walls, or do you want to be known as the man who embarrassed Stannis Baratheon in front of the entire Seven Kingdoms!" He pointed out to the small shadowed figures starting to appear on the walls and in the windows of the large red structure.

The pirate pushed him off and glared, placing his hands on his hips. He looked like he might speak against it, stopped himself, traded approach to his offer, but was silenced again. After a long moment he pointed to the boy with a narrow of eyes. "A song named "The Red Lobster" has a good ring too it." He grinned madly.

With a shout the short man called all his officers to the helm. He gave instructions in the harsh language of the Summer Islands to his men, before motioning them to disperse. Some went up, and some went down but all were now being covered by the massive shadow of Stannis Baratheon's flagship that was catching them. From afar they could hear the drums from below decks of the war galley, and the harsh voices of their commanders organizing archers. Raising above the stern of the smaller ship the massive wooden ordainment of Lyanna Stark appeared. In Jon's beloved aunt's sad eyes, it seemed in this light that she was an unwilling participant in the night's action against her blood. Yet, strangely her presence brought him a deep unknown comfort like it always had.

A strong sweat began to dampen his face as Stannis grew closer and closer. He flinched as the sound of royal long bowmen loosing arrows, their metal heads making sharp thunks on the aft of the ship. "Now?" Jon asked the experienced sailor. The Captain shook his head, his breath wild, his eyes bugged. The gnashing of water by two rows of oars splashed like a roar in their ears as the large ship drew ever closer.

Taking cover behind the helm, the pirate turned from the ominous looming sight of Lyanna Stark, to her nephew next to him. "How much does this golden Queen Cersei mean to you boy?!" He asked hotly as the arrows were starting to come closer and more frequent.

Grey and dark eyes met amongst the sound death clamoring on the base of the mast. "She's all that matters now." He spoke man to man with the famed pirate. There was no denying the deadly seriousness in the young man's eyes. From the loss of his friends to the death of the girl he loved there truly was nothing left but the information that Cersei Lannister had promised him.

With a deep breath, the pirate grabbed Jon Snow by his collar and pulled him close. "If we survive this, I tell you, Wolf-boy … you fuck this queen till you die and you fuck her well!" he pushed off the boy.

Jon smirked. "Ay, trust me, if you get us through this, I'll take her from behind and pretend that she's you." He promised.

Reaching for a horn around his neck, Sallador Saan placed it to his mouth. With three loud blasts of ear popping groans of a low base, there was an explosion of noise in their wake. The beat of the pirate's drum began to echo in a faster speed, the oars matching it. Above there was a rattle of sliding wood and whining of rigging. The crisp white sail caught the wind even before it was fully secured. Filled with the night breeze and escalated with the hard rowing they began to pull away from Robert's Hammer.

"RAMMING SPEED!" Sallador roared, before sounding his horn again.

Both Jon and Sam held onto what they could grab as the salty wind, the foul stench of the city in front of them, threw their hair back in the massive jump of speed. On the horizon the two galleys were now becoming closer and closer. Behind them the Flagship, began to open up her own speed in an attempt to catch the smugglers. Overhead they saw the illumination of large fire balls being launched from the warship trailing behind them. However, like Jon had predicted, the pitch overshot them. There was just the slightest semblance of smugness from the small crew to watch the fireball tear a gash through the onion galley's sail and explode on their deck. They watched men and debris covered in flame fall off the sides into the wake of their ship.

Ahead of them the other war galley began to turn, the shadowy silhouettes on her deck running to the opposite side. As they floated to an angle, waiting to take the blow from the smaller ship, the gap was starting to open.

"It's working!" Sam yelled in frightened enthusiasm as he struggled to keep his eyes open in the whip of the hard wind of the incredible speed they were covering over open water. Ahead of them were the two massive ships. One covered in darkness, the other afire. Taken together they looked like a great canyon. The pride of the middle son of the house of Baratheon would not order a halt to his barrage. In front of the racing ship was the dark canyon coming ever closer, accompanied by intensity of splashes and tremors of exploding fireballs that soaked every man on deck as they crashed ahead of them and raked their own ships. Closer and closer they were coming to the bombarded warship that continued to angle its stern to meet the smaller. Jon looked from the large ship to an intensely focused Sallador who held their course steady. Again and again he traded his vision from the closing space to the captain, not saying a word, but he felt as if he had no pulse, his heart beating so fast that it was scaling up his throat.

Suddenly the pirate jerked the helm to the side, spinning the great wheel, till it reached its limit. Instincts taking over, the boy rushed and helped the straining older man hold the wheel as the ship fainted in the other direction, heading for the widening gap. Everyone on deck and below grabbed anything for dear life. Jon was sure he would find splinters in skin years after this as he held the helm with all his might, helping Sallador make the turn. "Let go!" The dark skinned captain screamed to him. Jon fell backward in compliance. Rapidly, the wheel spun back to level on its own.

They were in the gap now. Above Jon could see the bright orange of consuming flames from exploding pitch that had landed. Above he could see yellow vested and uniformed men with black trim shouting as they passed between the ships. Flaming debris fell from the top of the warship on the deck of theirs.

His grey eyes were in such intense focus as he stared into the flames, that he felt as if there was something inside it. The swaying and shimmering fire twisted and moved like a hypnotizing dance that captured him completely. He suddenly saw within them a figure of someone. The harder he focused the closer he came to seeing her. She seemed so real he could touch her. The immense beauty had hair of silver and milky skin. She was sleeping under crisp linin sheets on her side. Her peaceful frame was silhouetted against a towering moonlit Pyramid out the window of her regal bedchamber. Her body covered in a silk sleeping shift. The girl opened soulful violet eyes as if she felt him close. She was drawn to the candle at her bedside as if she could see him in their flames. She titled her head inquisitively and there was just a smirk on her sleepy face as if his appearance from her slumber was a great pleasuring comfort. But suddenly she was frightened by his presence as her wits returned. Just as he was startled himself by the enchantingly beautiful girl a crew member dowsed the fire with a bucket. She was gone with the water and so was his breath.

Jon felt drained after his trance. But, he quickly got his bearings and saw that the war galley had caught onto what they were doing. He saw the large broadside of the angled ship, begin to swing back. The Royal Captain was attempting to crush them between the two ships. The pounding from the drums below was now at a desperate pace. Sallador roared as he braced the helm, their ship creaking and cracking in the building speed and tension as they flew through the deadly valley of wood and fire. Just as the window closed, the smuggler ship slipped past the two galleys and back into the open.

CRRRRRRAAAACKCKCKCKC!

KEUTTTTHHUM!

There was a sickening and blood curling crunch that echoed thunderously behind them. It was followed by an intense explosion that blasted the deck with a violent gust of hot air. Everyone hit the floor, covering their heads as it passed. In the aftermath all on deck and some below rushed to the sides of the ships to see what had happened.

Stannis Baratheon had let his reputation get the better of his commanding senses. Nipping at the heels of his mark, he had ordered more speed to catch them. In doing so his ship was sent into an irreversible pursuit of the pirates. But Robert's Hammer was too big to fit where the small smuggler's vessel could. As the captain of the Robert's Wrath tried to close the gap, he was met with the towering prized battering ram of the fleet's flagship. In the reckless force of the collision between the two galleys, it caused them both to careen into Davos Seaworth's vessel. The violence of the ramming had Robert's Hammer climbing on top of the Robert's Wrath, who had impaled the Onion Knight's now sinking vessel in the side.

Joining the sound of secondary explosions on all three piled up galleys was the deafening wild and indigenous yells and whoops of relief and taunting jubilee that carried to the Red Keep itself from the Summer Islander crew. Men came streaming from below deck to watch the spectacular and terrible victory left in their wake. Side by side, Jon turned to Sam whose face was illuminated by the great fire lighting the Black Water Bay. He turned to Jon and gave a drained smile of leaving stress. He gave a nod, and clapped a hand on his friends shoulder and gave it a shake in thanks for his quick thinking.

Suddenly Sallador Saan, pushed Jon out of the way with an energetic joy. He clapped his hands on Sam's chubby cheeks and planted a firm kiss on his lips. A grin fell on a squinted frown of disgust on the raven haired youths face. As the pirate broke the kiss, the crew laughed and cheered while Sam's eyes were wide and shocked when the captain pushed off him.

"I'm gonna be a very famous man!" He turned to Jon in his excitement. But when he looked that he was about to pounce on the other Night's Watchmen, he was stopped with a warning look.

The young man instead offered a hand for a forearm brace. "And a rich one …" He added to the Captain's statement. The pirate respected his wishes, but still pushed aside his arm and embraced the boy tightly. He put one arm around Jon and the other around Sam as the celebration continued.

He strained the boys' necks holding their heads close to his as if he was telling them a secret. "Fuck the gold! I'm already a rich man with many wives and mistresses, Lord Crow! But tonight, oh tonight they'll be singing the name of Sallador Saan forever!" Finally he released them and leapt with a wild yelp, pumping his fist in the air on his way back to the helm. On a high that he had never felt before Sallador Saan felt that night that he could live for a thousand years.

They watched him go with a humored smirk and a still frozen look of confusion. Sam rubbed his lips with a sneer toward Jon. "It's a good thing that I kissed Gilly before … I'd hate for that to have been my first." He stated between heavy breaths.

Jon let out his first real laugh in a month and padded his friend on the back as he walked back below deck. His smile lingered to curiosity. He paced through the crowd of celebrating sailors to a scorched mark on the wood where the fire had been. He knelt next to it, his hand touching the ashy residue, grinding the black soot between his fingers. When he closed his eyes he could see the silver haired beauty that still had him enthralled. His heart felt sore and his pulse still throbbing in his wrists. But it wasn't because of the battle … it was the girl.

The smuggler's ship slipped back into the fog and rocks, disappearing out of the view of the hundreds of shadowed figures watching from the Red Keep. But above them all, the light of candles and lantern was snuffed from within the Hand's chambers.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Author's Notes<strong>

_**"Copperhead Road - Steve Earl"**_

_**Jon's POV and mind state for the chapter inspired by the timely song of "Live Oak" By Jason Isbell. **_

_**As always your reviews help keep this story going. **_

_**I **__**know that most of you guys are disappointed that it took me ten weeks to get back to this. But if you follow my Tumblr than I've already gone into detail about having very unsavory run ins with several fangirls over the Jaime & Cersei sept scene and my almost quitting on this fandom completely when they took one man's opinion on a fictional show so serious that they began harassing me on all my social media and tweeting Lena Headey to "Warn her" about me. which is hilarious because my TSCC fanfics have been read by her and Thomas Dekker in the past pre-game of thrones for fun. Also my own interpretation of the sept scene actually lined up with her and NCW's. So basically they were warning her to stay away from a guy who was the only person on her and the show's side ... **_

_**Fangirls, man. **_

_**Make no mistake guys I write this for fun, because it's fun and you guys are great. However the minute it stops becoming fun and people take something so serious they get ugly with me or each other. I pack my bags and go into seclusion. **_

_**Luckily for me and I guess you guys, the reader. I ended up having a lot of fun writing this and it really restored my faith and confidence in this story in general.**_

_**One last thing. Like I say in my Sarah Connor Chronicles stories. If you want to comment on the Author's Notes. PM me, the review section is for the story only. **_

_**Lean it, Know it, Live it. **_


	7. Autumn Wind - Part I

**Autumn Wind - Part I**

There was a quiet that could not penetrate the Tower of the Hand. High above, into the cold bitter autumn sky, there was a silence that weighed heavily upon every stone, every shingle, and every soul that greeted the bright, frigid mid-morning with a heavy conscious, and an anxious heart. The halls should be bustling with the noise of the everyday mundane tasks and chores echoing through the stone walls, and marble halls of what might arguably be the most important tower in all of the Seven Kingdoms. But today there was not a clack, not a scrape, and not a squeak that could be heard through the corridors or the yard.

But it was not just the Tower of the Hand, nor was the sentry Red Keep itself— the entire city quiet. The Capital's only offering- the whimpers and howls of the cold wind rushing a balmy smell of salt and sea through the gridded and curving streets below. Sometimes, in the early of the morning, the sound of venders, the shouting and chaos of the markets and the working hammer of the Street of Steel all crowded amongst themselves and washed over the hollow halls and through the opened windows. All of it hitting you at once, making you believe that the entire stinking, festering city below had overcome you at once. But there was none of that this morning.

The city had emptied for the day. Every lord, lady, lordling, merchant, sailor, and fish wife had left their posts, their daily lives to journey a mile or so outside the red walls and across the bridge to witness the greatest gathering of nobility, of knights, of mummers, and fools. Never before had anyone who lived seen such a sight as what King Robert Baratheon had taken months to plan. Never had such a feast, such a spectacle, such grandeur been made of the slighting of a man's pride and legacy as what had been built from the betrayal of Queen Cersei. Just a mile or two down the road upon a crossroads lay the hinge to the door of fate that would close and open for a new era of history.

But Eddard Stark couldn't think that far ahead, couldn't bring himself to consider what tonight's fortunes would wrought. It had always been said of Ned Stark that he was a simple lad, with simple tastes, who lived for today. Some would say that was why he was a poor Hand, and why others said he was an irreplaceable man in times such as they were. Eddard was not a man who thought ahead, who planned out every little thing with contingencies if they failed. He would face his foe on the field of battle and best him there on that day. But never had he lived to think he would ever consider whether he would even face a foe. He had fought many battles in his years, and every man he killed was on that field looking to kill him. Now sitting in the solar, staring at the ashes of the last embers of the night's fire, he felt out of his element. For he had a choice before him, would he pick this fight, and kill a righteous man, or would he be the honorable man he strove to be and let justice find the cause of such bloodshed.

Robb Stark sat next to him at the second chair in front of the fireplace, and he had not said a word. He knew Eddard's mind the way his mother had. Catelyn had sat there just as their son had, and watch him, a silent companion to long hours of contemplation. Sad, grey eyes staring at the great sword lying on the table between them. One look, maybe two from Eddard and the handsome youth, like his mother knew what great problem plagued his father's mind. For a time he might have protested the very thought of conflict. He'd bring Bran, and Jon Arryn to the front of his mind in outrage. But war had taken a boy, and in his place brought a shrewd and thoughtful man.

Blood, gore, and struggle had tempered youthful righteousness, and brought prospective. Robb Stark had watched his friends die at the hand of the Kingslayer and the Mountain. He had suffered those losses alone, without a mother, father, or lover to pour boiling wine over those deep wounds. Arriving in the capital as a hero seemed empty and bitter. In the light he was as dashing and strong as a young lord could be, the talk of the council chambers, and the Maiden Vaults. But in the dark of the night he clung to Sansa, buried his auburn haired head into his sister's pale bosom. The long hours crying of the horror and "Heroism" his arm and losses had earned him. Under the sheets the sad eyed fairytale beauty carrying with a great sorrow of her own, filled her heart with all the love she had within herself and in that hour, that minute, and that second took the place of whoever her brother, her great protector needed her to be when he was so afraid of the man this war had made him. Waking this morning from such a night as that. Robb Stark could not judge his father on how he dealt with the loss of Catelyn, who he took comfort with to help him through all of the pain, and most importantly how hard he'd fight to keep it, to keep her.

Both men sat now in the Hand's chambers absorbing the quiet of the morning, the same tortured expressions on grim faces of what awaited when the new sun fell beyond the waterline. Neither knowing what the many tomorrows would bring, and if one of them would be returning home, if both of them would, or would one of them follow the escort of the Silent Sisters all the way back to the crypts under Winterfell.

Eddard's chair creaked as he leaned forward and placed his forehead on his open palm. Robb watched him with a blink, his Tully blue eyes flecked with worry and anxiety. He wanted to say something, Ned could see it. But the young lord wasn't sure who should speak, the son, the solider, or the boy. Would he be the son, who respected and defended his father's decision no matter the course? The soldier, who would encourage him to fight the King's champion? Or would it be the boy, who didn't want to lose anymore, who just wanted his father to come home. Who was right, who was wrong, and who had the claim? Eddard Stark wished his son knew that all of them would have Eddard's heart and ear in this moment of doubt.

CRISH!

"GET OUT!"

Robb turned in his seat, to the closed door of the Hand's bedchamber where a woman's voice roared in frustrated command. There was the clattering of an aluminum tray, jewels and bobbles cascading on the floor, and the sound of glass shattering. The boy quickly turned to his father, but Eddard continued to sit thoughtfully, his eyes veiled as the struggle and shouting continued. Suddenly the door flew open and serving women came rushing out, a look of fear and fluster on their faces as a flying chrome challis crashed against the open door. All of the disarrayed northern women rallied to Eddard who still hadn't said a word or acknowledged anything else was happening. They stood huddled, partly confused and partly frustrated. For whatever could be said about Catelyn, and even more so her complicated and style conscious daughter, neither were this troublesome. But still Eddard said nothing, gazing into the ashes pensively. For a long beat they all looked amongst themselves, while Robb watched his father. After a moment of quiet, the young lord took command.

"Give us a moment." His nod was reassuring to the girls. They all gratefully bowed in unison and exited the apartments, leaving the men alone again. Robb turned back to look at the now open door in his father's chambers, but saw nothing. While he was surveying the mess on the floor, a hand reached out and touched his arm.

Eyes and a grim face the mask of aged lines were still covered but Ned Stark's large hand still rested on his son's arm. It was an unspoken request that only a parent could communicate to their child. The moment ticked away as the auburn haired lord looked back and forth between the door and his father. He finally agreed to remove himself, with a scrape of boots he clacked away. Sansa had left earlier, as the Tully's had no female representation for the tourney, she would take their grandmother and mother's place at their uncle Brynden's side in front of the whole realm. In all the years that will come afterward no lord, lady, or small folk would forget such a beauty as the girl with the auburn locks, the silky red and blue dress, and the sad crystal eyes that glimmered in the cold sunlight.

As he passed his father, Eddard reached out again, stopping his son. Hardened eyes looked up from their pensive torment to find the face of the boy they knew so well. Tully blue and Stark gray met once more while the youth waited for his father to say something. But Eddard didn't. Maybe all he needed was to see one of his children. Maybe he needed to see his wife's eyes one more time, hoping they'd tell him what to do, despite his love being bared for another. But instead of anything, he gave a stern but affectionate pat to Robb's strong sword arm, which gave him leave. Robb gave one last nod and left the chambers.

When he was gone, the stern man sat for a pace or two longer. The solitude came in waves, the pulse of consciousness rippling through the cold chambers. He drew a long hard breath and withdrew from his seat by the fireplace with a creak. He still walked with a limp, but he didn't need his cane for now. His walk was slow and shuffled as he limped toward the chambers where all the commotion had happened.

On the floor a small puddle of wine stained the sole of his boot as a silver cup rolled back and forth when nudged. Though the bed had been made up, its fine soft quilt was adorned with emerald and sapphire jewels, and tangles of chokers. On the far end table at the foot of the bed a pitcher of wine sat unmolested, while the cups had been flung. He observed the mess with clinical but judgment free gaze till they fell to his chair by the desk.

Emerald eyes were fierce and distracted as they looked off to the distance. Her dark blue silken gown was halfway open revealing a matching corset of sinfully smooth material that hugged her perfect pale figure. Her long tresses of satin hair were askew, a stylish hairdo only half done. Fizzles of loose waves fluttered in the cold autumn breeze, while an audacious silver tiara with sapphire gems fell askew on the side of her golden head. The immense beauty looked vengefully contemptuous, as she was petulant, nursing an unsavory look as she swirled a mostly empty wine cup.

He watched her with eyes unchanged. The Queen's appearance seemed to match the fury and madness within herself. She had slept an hour or two, short gentle naps between sunrise and midmorning. He hadn't left her side, and she his arms. All through the night she begged for more, hotly, angrily, desperately as they made love. Each time he'd spilled his seed and she released, he'd slip down to her sweaty firm belly to rest his head and she'd lift it back to her, shaking her curls, begging him not to leave her yet. Again and again they made love, as if racing the sun himself. And finally when her womanhood was soaked and seeping with his seed Cersei had her fill. Finally the beautiful Queen slipped away into a sweaty pleasant unconsciousness as the purple and orange rays of the morning touched the sky. He should've slept then as she fell into the sweet darkness of weary dreamless sleep. But then he saw how fragile and tender she was in the early morning light, and so he took her in his arms and held her closely. He let her have one last hour of peace in safety before she faced all the fear and anger that would come out in this moment of time.

Pacing forward, she had no interest in his presence. Even disheveled and half dressed, internally the queen wore her armor of uncaring. She'd have herself appear as crisp and cold as the weather outside. She would act like nothing fazed her, not the uncertainty that waited, and not the desperate need in the love making. She'd all pretend it didn't happen to shield from the storm within herself. She was angry for being abandoned, and angry for being sold off to Robert. She was enraged that it had all come to this, separated from her children, and her humiliation turned into a grand spectacle. But most of all she was mad at herself for needing another, for showing weakness in the want of a stranger's embrace and safety of his arms when her courage faltered in sight of the moon and the witching hours of night when she was not herself.

Eddard Stark grunted as he moved forward taking in hand the pitcher of wine on his end table. Shifting her jaw angrily, the queen held out her cup without looking. A reflex for a want in order to bolster the battlements she had built around herself. She however did take notice of the Hand when he passed her by. She blinked and turned in her seat to watch Eddard go out onto the balcony. Her eyes bulged watching the Lord Hand upturn the pitcher, spilling the thick alcohol into the sea. She stood with fire in her nerves at the site of his action. When he was done, the man limped back and slammed the empty pitcher on his desk.

There was a pause between the two while Eddard stood at full height of authority. It was seldom that Ned Stark enforced the rules of captivity and reminded the Queen that she was his prisoner. But he knew when she drank, she was unagreeable, and today of all days was not the time to be unagreeable. The cup of wine she was allowed to drink even on peaceful days was the one thing that the Hand and the Queen fought about constantly. He'd force her to find comfort in other things, and she'd force him to regret it.

Flinging her cup into his chest, the woman pounced on Eddard with a snarl. Her delicate slender hands struck his chest, her long nails digging into the beaten leather of his surcoat as she attempted to get at him. But when she reached back to strike him on the face, her flat palm was halted. An iron grip clamped down upon her wrist and another large hand held her arm tightly. She was quickly over powered, his hands forcing her shoulders up, curbing the violence that ripped through her upon seeing her only means of coping with this terrible day drained away. She spat and huffed, baring her teeth like they were fangs. But it was all useless gestures as she lay completely at Ned Stark's mercy. Fierce emerald eyes matched stalwart gray as she wrenched weakly in the last drops of defiance within her.

This limbo between physical altercations she started was not new to the queen. If it were Jaime, he'd smash his mouth against her, gnawing on her bottom lip till it was swollen, turning her anger into passion, her violence to lust. Had it been Robert, he would've brought his meaty hand down on her cheek like the hammer he used to wield as mightily as the turkey leg he does now. He'd knock her to the floor or the bed depending on if he was determined to bring her to heel in other ways. But this was neither Robert nor Jaime, this was Ned Stark. This man with the sad eyes, and tired demeanor never matched the queen's anger with his own. He had never struck her. He simply let her struggle herself out, till she understood she'd not win. But unlike Robert who would still be spat upon and scratched even as he mercilessly mounted and pounded her till she bit a silk pillow. With Eddard, after a moment of reprieve, she felt guilty for her violent outbursts, the petty tantrum of a spoiled child that led to her being restrained. Unlike fighting with Robert or even Jaime, she never felt righteous afterward.

Gently Eddard released her, and she responded in kind by ripping out of his grip aggressively. Retreating to the other side of the room, Cersei turned her back on him. Chest huffing, there was still a sense of guardedness to the woman. The Hand let out a long agitated sigh and looked out toward the horizon. There was no mistaking that Cersei Lannister knew how to make Eddard Stark mad, it was seldom that he showed it, but she knew how to push him. However this was not one of those times. He knew what it was like before a battle, the edginess, and the anger of having to be in this situation where it was your life on the line. Now he could only imagine how it must feel to know your life was at stake and you weren't allowed to fight for it. Whatever Cersei threw at him today, he understood why she did it.

He wasn't quiet or subtle as he wandered back toward the Queen. She didn't track him, or turn to look. But he could tell when she was listening, and sneaking peaks at what he was doing. She didn't shrug off or deny the two hands that had restrained now gently lay on her. Tenderly he rubbed her arm with all the comfort and humanity of a man who had seen too much of the worst the world could offer. Her back fit against his chest and her shoulders rose and fell with heaves. He placed his nose against her hair as a stream of angry tears fell down the Queen's lovely cheeks.

She glared through tears when Eddard kindly turned her around so he could look upon her. There was a paternal side of the man that took over, as a single digit from his hand attempted to clear away a tear. The woman responded angrily, forcing it away and trying to turn away from him in embarrassment. But he wouldn't allow her. This time an entire hand cupped her cheek lovingly, gazing on her tears not with sympathy, but with understanding. As they fell, she stopped trying to fight him when she saw he did not give her pity or patronize her. Feeling respected even in her time of weakness, she allowed herself to rubbing her wet pale cheek hard into his strong hand. She received a chaste kiss to her rose red lips as she released his hand.

Sniffling, the woman watched in dazed fascination as Eddard began closing her gown around her. It was believed that men didn't know how to cloth a woman, and a woman how to fasten armor. But whither it was a lady in waiting or a squire to a great knight, both understood how to fasten and dress the complicated straps and harnesses of any outfit. While he worked, the Queen's slender hands reached out and traced the man's bearded face as he fastened her in her regal gown. He looked up for only a moment so that he could retrieve her silver belt. That's when he saw the look in her eyes that fell on him. She couldn't comprehend, didn't understand what was coming over her. He knew she was conflicted about everything she ever believed.

Eddard Stark was an enemy. He wasn't her blood, he wasn't her child, and he wasn't even her ally. Yet he was a man who took care of her, who warmed her in the cold nights, and who laid with her with such passion and promises. But even then somewhere in the back of her mind Tywin Lannister had always made it clear that there were limits to him. Cersei had thought she was incapable of loving someone who wasn't golden haired and rich beyond any Northman's wildest dreams. She was incapable because she didn't trust anyone to love her that wasn't a Lannister, and told since she was a girl that no one could. After seventeen years of punches, midnight rapes, and unhappiness she was so sure her father was true to his word. And yet there stood a man from the wilds of the north who protected her, slept with her, fed and clothed her when no Lannister dared. Now as he dressed her, she saw in his steady eyes that he had made a decision. A decision that went beyond any limits that even her own father would go for her.

For the first time, Cersei Lannister thought of the consequences for another due to her action. For the first time she realized what she had done, and the wrong of it without a sneer, or self-justification. When she framed Eddard Stark's face and saw what he would do for her today and every day after, she knew whatever happened next would be her fault. Cersei crushed herself into the man's chest, pressing her lips to his ear, eyes squeezed shut.

Cersei Lannister for the first time in her life finally understood what it was to truly, madly, love someone who wasn't a part of herself or her family.

And how terrified she was to lose him.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Author Notes<strong>

_I can hear you guys right now … _

"_Five months, five months, and this is all we get?! You're making us look like a bunch of Assholes waiting for this story!" (Cause all of you have Stanton Island accents in my head.)_

_Listen, guys, I hear you and I know, I see the numbers this story pulls in. Here's the thing, I started on a Sherlock Holmes type mystery story right after the last chapter, and that lasted me all the summer all the way up till the end of October. Then in November I took a month off for development on other things. I had always intended to come back to this right after the Detective story, I just have this anxiety. _

_Look, guys, Game of Thrones is not home to me. I can write the "Sarah Connor Chronicles" characters in my sleep after five years, which makes it easy to update rapidly and go off cuff with stories in that fandom. But Game of Thrones comes much harder to me. Between old Martin hating Fanfic writers like cancer, and my basic winging of the characters based on gut instinct, I'm all but flying blind here. Yes, I've read all the books, including the "Dunk and Egg" adventures but it's been years._

_I'm not saying it's an excuse, I'm just telling you how I feel on the subject when people ask why this doesn't get updated more regularly. _

_Now with that being said, the next chapter has been in planning for literally years, and it will most likely be the death of me in terms of a lot of characters, a lot of action, and a lot of dialogue with characters I've never written before. In fact this chapter was actually the opening to the big tourney chapter, but since it was running super long I figured it was enough to be a part one to a two part narrative that will change the status quo of the story. _

_So, if you're looking for a ton of action and a break from the romance, than you'll like what's coming up. But, if you read this for the straight romance than you might be disappointed, next chapter. _

_Expect the new chapter just before or on New Year's. _


	8. The Autumn Wind - Part II

**The Autumn Wind **

_Part II_

There was a frosted glaze upon the yellowed green of the plains that stretched as far as the Vale. In the shadow of the massive and grand city, whose silhouette ever haunted the horizon, the fields at its base were lit by a golden hue in the steely cloudless autumn sky. It's great canvas stretching endlessly into the great wide open. It hardly seemed imaginable to see such a sight as those who rode forth from Kings Landing to gaze upon an entire plain set ablaze with the brilliance of the afternoon sunlight reflected by the frost. There was a deep freeze in the air as hard and painful as a lance's blow. Its stiff charge swirled once it swept down from the hills upon where a capital was built. It was a cold that was not native to these lands of such a temperate climate. For months the weather had been frigid in the mornings, only to be driven away by the mid-afternoon sun, returning the day to a warmer disposition. The winters in the Crown Lands had always been mild at best, it's autumns nonexistent, but there was something different about this chill — something elemental and dark. It was like a poisoned fume breathed out by a great slumbering dragon. This frozen toxicity passing unseen over the great ice wall, through the North, and settling in the heart of Westeros. Some say that it was the precursor to a long and dark winter, and yet, others had their own theory.

There was a strange magic in the works here they would say, an old and evil entity attracted to sickness. A sickness fathered by greed and mothered by pride, whose seed was two hundred swords melted by dragon fire and fashioned into a throne. All who see it and stand by it can feel its pull. In the glimmer of the stained glass light that reflects off the melted metal they hear it whispering to them all their deepest and most coveted desires. For all those who come to possess it, it forever fattens like a pig marked to slaughter for a grand feast. It gives you everything you desire, and in return everything you were and ever had been becomes inflamed. Like an infected boil, you grow and grow till you're ready to pop. Then, the sickness feasts upon you, until all who you were was no more, replaced by a warped, prideful image.

Here, a mile from the capital, sat the greatest and most egregious monument to the great sickness that had now begun to feed upon its boar. In compensation for a spurn of the greatest of prides sat its greatest spectacle in response. Built into a shape of the seven pointed star of the Andal's Faith was a grand stadium. Its powerful oaken foundation, towers, and tissue chopped from the King's Wood and floated down the Black Water by barge to the cross roads where all paths lead to the capital. Like the Pyramids of Meereen, The Titan of Bravos, and the Walls of Qarth. Robbed of his heirs, this grand tourney stadium was the jewel of all Robert Baratheon's accomplishments as king of a new and failing dynasty. This temple of violence, chivalry, and masculinity was an amalgamation of all that King Robert ever loved. With the blow of no true born sons, and the recent death of his brother Stannis, the construction of it seemed to be all he cared for now. So it would be that this legendary structure would not waste its grand opening on anything less than the spectacle of seeing justice be done upon King Robert's greatest enemy … his own queen.

From inside the large structure of wood and iron were packed and huddled together the small folk. Traveling all morning to reach this bewildering wonder of the likes few had seen, they squeezed into every nook and corner of the tall levels of the towers to see the greatest tourney that the Seven Kingdoms had ever known. So close were the quarters between them, that from the outside their combined frothing breath in the frozen air made the stadium seem like a chimney billowing smoke. Closer to the field, for better vantage point, sat the nobility and their liege lords of the great houses. Each kingdom occupied one of seven corners of the star. A wooden ceiling covered the great lord's dais where his lady and heir may sit by his side. While below, were stands for the smaller lords and knights in his retainer.

All of it was a travesty according to Eddard Stark as he walked up the ramp from the entrance of their section of the star. Northmen did not believe in tournaments; Eddard in particular had distaste for them. He held no tourneys in the North, allowed no tourneys, and while he would not bar any of his lords from entering elsewhere he would not have any of his own sons compete in them. To Ned they were expensive and unneeded events to bolster those in high stations so that they may parade around in fancy, useless armor and glorify play actions that should be any man's last choice in any situation. War was a terrible and awful necessity and never earned any man greatness as he took another's life at the point of the sword.

Arm interlocked in his was someone who found even more reasons to dislike this place than he. The Queen's face was passive, but her eyes were hardened and cold. From the first moment she saw this ugly stadium, The Hand knew Cersei Lannister wanted to rip it apart piece by piece in her cold fury. As they emerged from the tunnel out into the slanted stands where his lords and their ladies sat, all eyes fell upon them from every corner of the rambunctious and charged building. In that moment, he knew the Queen could murder every single person within it. They had all come to celebrate and enjoy her great humiliation. Her only defense, her only way to take back just a swallow of pride from this day, was what she relied on so heavily all her life, her beauty. There was no denying that on this day Cersei Lannister was radiant. Her pallid face, and red lips played beautifully against her golden tresses that shimmered in the cold glow of the afternoon like a goddess. A sleek sable cloak covered her regal gown of dark blue silk, trimmed in silver with white sleeves. A silver choker sat against her smooth throat and a matching tiara adorned with great shimmering sapphires sat upon her golden head. All who looked upon her fell for her in that first moment. In the golden light of the afternoon she outshined every lady within the confines of the stadium. She was as bright and beautiful as the North Star, never to be missed or forgotten on this day.

As they walked up the iron locked steps of oak toward their boxed dais, the lords and ladies of the North greeted them with bow and curtsy. They had all come against their better judgments, forced by King's decree. But in an act of lawful defiance every Northern lord from Bear Island to the Neck had forbidden their sons from entering the melee. If the King were to gain a champion this day, he would not be from the North. Though the lords and even their ladies had no love for the Queen, they did have a fierce one for Eddard Stark. Though uncomfortable It maybe for them to see their liege so taken and protective of a Lannister, especially so close to his wife's death, they trusted the man with their lives. Battle, fairness, and fear of winter all on the fringes of the known world had forged a bond between families of power that was seldom known by other lords there that day. So it was that they showed solidarity with Eddard Stark by standing with him in protest.

When they reached the summit of the stands, they found that Robb had already arrived. The handsome young war hero seemed deep in thought. He slouched in his seat on the right of his father's chair. The auburn haired man's crystal eyes were far afield with thoughts of some private melancholy. His father thought if there was ever an example of the foolishness of a melee then all they had to do is look to Robb Stark. To see the anxiety and sadness he dealt with day by day to know that war was not a child's game. But as quick as it was there it was gone when he noticed his father and the Queen arrive. He offered Cersei a chivalrous hand of help as she settled into the seat that by all rights Catelyn Stark should be occupying. But today was not a day for bitter feelings, or cracks in the solid ice that all the lords of the North had created around The Hand and his lady love.

Finally when Robb settled back in his place, Eddard placed his priority on finding Sansa. It was a short search for proudly there was no missing the girl. Across from House Stark's point in the stadium was a section marked with the draped tapestry of the leaping trout. Sitting on a matching dais was Brynden Tully. The old soldier wore his black scales and leathers, his face impeccably hard. But his eyes were warm and face lilted in a playful smirk. His calloused hand meant for fighting was gentle and paternal resting on the creamy skin of the girl sitting regally next to him. Taking her grandmother and mother's place, Sansa sat at her great-uncle's side as the lady of Riverrun for an afternoon. Three generations of women of the Trident had bestowed the gift of beauty upon Sansa. Curtains of her mother's beautiful, thick auburn hair curled down over her virginal breasts. She wore a pearly white silken gown over a fur lined cloak of red and blue that once belonged to Catelyn herself at her daughter's age. If Cersei Lannister was a regal goddess, then Sansa Stark was the picture of purity and innocent beauty in her pearl gown. Today she was the Maiden herself. It pained Ned to admit that even the inherent sorrow in his daughter's eyes made her even more beautiful than ever. It elicited a powerful primal love for her, and a protectiveness that only fathers know when they finally understand how beautiful their girl really was.

But he was relieved to see a cracked smirk on her rosy lips as Brynden whispered something in her ear. As he continued her smile grew wider as they glanced upon Lord Mace Tyrell in the corner next to them. It wasn't long till she began to laugh. Brynden Tully had come to love Eddard's eldest children as much as he had Catelyn in the short time he had known them. Having always liked Robb since the boy was small and now earning his respect on the battlefield, the Black Fish could always be found in Robb's company; where, coincidently, you could always find Sansa. Having taken Edmure and Catelyn's deaths harder only second to her children, and most likely never to marry himself, Brynden had become very fond of the only parts of Catelyn he had left. It warmed Eddard, after all they had been through, to hear the evening laughter echoing down the halls whenever the three supped together.

With both children secured for the moment, he returned his focus to the Queen. Her fierce emerald eyes were drawn away, despite many eyes both noble and common drawn to her. Eddard followed her gaze out to the field. Protruding onto the competition grounds was a large stilted patio closest to the action than anywhere, though still corded off by fence. There, flanked by Balon Swan and Ser Barristan sat Robert. Eddard felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he looked at the man he loved like a brother. His frazzled and unkept curls on his head and cheeks were more white than black. He looked a million miles away from sober, his blue eyes more purple being blood shot from drunken and sleeplessness. He looked like a blushed, feverish shell. He was a fat old man with a vaguely familiar face. His Hand wondered if the King even knew where he was right now. Renly had come to him in private. Robert was drifting away, becoming trapped in his own mind, locked in revelries of victories won long years ago. He had retreated into the past to spare the emptiness of the present and the abyss of any future. They say Cersei had broken him … but Eddard knew better. Robert had been broken a long time. It was only now that he had come to grips with it himself. Life had lost all meaning to him without a prince to kill, a war to win, or a damsel to rescue. He had only accomplished one of those goals and always left the last two for Eddard. Sadly, for his part … From Lyanna to Cersei, he was always too late for the last.

He noticed that it wasn't Robert that the Queen was staring at, but his companion. Sitting to Robert's right was a young woman with satiny tresses of brown hair worn up in an elegant fashion, twin falling ringlets framing her rosy cheeks. She had deeply piercing blue eyes. Eddard recognized the seductively beautiful catlike features of Margaery Tyrell. He noticed as he was sure Cersei had before him that the girl, despite the cold afternoon, was still dressed in a very tight and revealing gown. The smooth skin of her bare back and her supple cleavage were only covered by a shawl. Cersei glared in bitter disdain for the doe eyed girl. For some time since Ned had rescued Cersei and her children from the dungeons, Margaery Tyrell had been seen spending much time with Robert. Under the guidance of Olena Tyrell, her grandmother, and the maneuvering of Renly, the girl had slid into the inner circle of court unchecked. They say that the King liked her, that she had a resemblance to Lyanna. Ned didn't see it himself. But somehow watching Margaery's doe eyes and coached sweet demeanor, he realized that Robert didn't know Lyanna either. If this beauty was playing anything, it was a maiden that had been idealized in a drunk's head.

Sudden thoughts of Arya were interrupted by an uncomfortable shift of a figure watching him right back. Ever behind Margaery Tyrell and in the company of Robert was the Red Priestess. She had been introduced to the King by Stannis. Robert had asked him to bring her, hoping to ridicule his brother more for his new found religious fervor. By the end of the night the fool was offering her a place in the Red Keep. Apartments that only the most honored guest were given. Melisandre of Ashai had haunted Maegor's halls since. She was a strange woman with alluring appeal that made some attracted to her presence and others afraid. Margaery Tyrell had invited her to tea several weeks ago; the eldest of Mace's children and her pretty cousins were interested in the Red Priestess's story. Cersei told him in bed that the only thing Margaery was interested in was her intentions with Robert. After that they supped in private three more times. It was Sansa who made mention that Margaery had made the red woman her constant companion. She informed Eddard and Cersei that Olena was furious and was complaining bitterly of the red woman's thrall on all of her granddaughters. Even Robb spoke of the strange disconnected glassy look in all the Tyrell girls eyes, but Margaery's the most of all her kin. Eddard warned both of his children to stay away from the foreign woman. Fore even now with his eyes matched to her, he felt strange, like a long shadowy hand was groping through his sockets trying to touch his mind. He resisted angrily at the odd feeling of old memories, of towers, blood, and rose petals. He quickly shook off the hand and the feeling. To this the woman only smiled from a passive face. Cloaked in a heavy hooded robe of fiery red, she bent down toward Margaery's ear; her matching red gloves of supple leather caressed the base of the girl's neck as she whispered gently. With a glass eyed look, the younger woman nodded in compliance and stood to leave. The Red Woman turned her attention toward Robert who hadn't even noticed his companion had left.

"It's a Stark kinda of day, wouldn't you say?"

The moment the voice pierced over the roar of the crowd into their silent box, the look on Cersei's face was a sober moment of reality that she truly was in hell. Swaggering confidently past Stark guardsmen was a man, small in stature, with a mess of dark blond curls. He wore a crimson leather doublet with golden embroidery, and black leathers. Even as a dwarf, there was a privilege of arrogance to Tyrion Lannister's small stride that came with every member of his family that Eddard had ever met. As always the dwarf was accompanied by his roguish sell-sword bodyguard. He was dressed in finer clothing than his grandfather could ever dream of. Trailing behind them was a hunched lad younger than Robb. He was a quiet and demure boy in a Lannister squire's outfit.

The small man ignored the combined look of unwelcome from all three occupants of the box. While Ned and Robb glared at the small man, Cersei seemed content to ignore her little brother. Even when he climbed up to give the woman a loving peck on the cheek she tried to pay him no mind. "Don't you look radiant today, sweet sister?" He seemed to revel in the distaste of the Stark dais.

A cold glare formed in emerald eyes found the Martell tapestry. "I see father has sent you." Her voice grounded under pressure of frustration and anger over the realization of her abandonment. It was now all too clear that Tywin Lannister had sacrificed his only daughter to the violent mob in silks and leathers for political protection. If she could, the woman would've ripped her father's colors from her trunks and closets in rage. But all she did was open her sable a little more to show her new ones.

The small man motioned for his squire Podrick to fetch him a chair. "I'm grieved to confirm it …" He sighed. "He believed by sending me in his stead it would be making a statement for all of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock." Eddard could see that despite the devil-may-care attitude on Tyrion's face, he could hear the blanketed hurt in his voice. "Funny man, our father." He concluded.

"Yes, almost as fun as you." Cersei bit at him. This day was hard enough without the one person she hated most in the world being there to make his little snarks and jokes at her in this, her most trying hour.

"True, though not as much fun as I hear you've been having." Mismatched green eyes looked toward Eddard Stark who he hadn't seen since the King had gone to Winterfell. At the implications in which the dwarf had insinuated there was a flash in the Hand's temper. Though true, they were not things the he wanted to be spoken of from the likes of Tyrion Lannister. But before he could reply a long and loud scraping noise echoed over the loud chatter of the packed stadium.

Like nails on a chalkboard, everyone turned to watch Podrick Payne drag a large chair up the ramp. The boy looked strained beyond all hope as he pushed the heavy seat toward Cersei's chair. The Queen rolled her eyes to the sky, Eddard placed his forehead on his hand, and Robb squinched his eyes shut. Tyrion scratched his head with a flush of embarrassment as the boy finally was able to push the tall backed chair against Cersei's. Without thinking Podrick sat down next to the queen, catching his heavily misted breath with a bead of sweat on his brow.

"Well done, Pod." Tyrion complimented sarcastically. He could feel half the eyes of the tourney on them suddenly.

"Thank you my lord …" The boy didn't wise up to his master's inflection.

He sat for an awkward moment longer till he turned to meet the dangerous emerald eyes of the Queen. She looked at the squire as if he was a bug that had scurried into her chambers and was about to be squashed with thoughtless ease. Startled, he turned back to Tyrion who waited patiently for the squashing.

"S –sorry my lord! S-s-sorry your, your grace." He nearly fell out of the chair when he saw the gaff in protocol, quickly stumbling away from the beautiful predator. This primal look in Cersei's eyes was all but ineffective to Tyrion who slid into the chair. Immediately it was replaced by deep seated annoyance that fell over the woman's face as she scooted closer to Eddard, away from her brother.

"Doesn't our family have its own box, Tyrion?" She shifted her jaw with a cutting contempt in her polished voice.

"True …" He began unscrewing a lion headed cap off a golden flask. "But since I'm so much fun and the Starks are …" he trailed off when Eddard and Robb slowly turned dangerous eyes toward the dwarf. He took a hard swallow of his cider. "More the merrier …" He shifted gears quickly under both father and son's hardened gaze.

"Too much fun is a bad thing …" Cersei sniped. "Especially too much you." She snarled under breath.

A grudging smirk touched Tyrion's lips. "Blasphemy" He announced, turning in his seat to face Cersei. "Where's your sense of excitement?!" he gestured all around her with mock amazement. "We're in the biggest structure to ever be built in six months in the history of the kingdoms. Can't you feel the surge and anticipation in the crowd?! The exhilaration of knowing that someone must have took a short cut in construction to get this place ready for today. Just think, all of this could fall down on top of us and all the nobility of Westros at any moment?" He placed a hand over his heart. "Just imagine a whole continent, seven kingdoms, all run by three year old second sons who can't even wipe their own asses." He shook his head with an amused smile.

"Yes, fascinating." Robb said in annoyance.

Lounging back in his chair the dwarf turned to his sell-sword. "Tell 'em, Bronn." He urged the rogue.

The man stood straighter and quirked an eyebrow as he looked around. "Ay …" he bounced on his boot heels. "My balls grew three times since I walked in here." He provided with a shrug.

"See!" He gestured Cersei to the man as if it gave him validation.

"Excuse me, Lord Stark … Your Grace?"

There was humor to be found by Ned, even as dark an hour as they seemed to have entered. If the arrival of Tyrion to their dais was enough to ruin Cersei's evening, than the arrival of Margaery Tyrell was only pilling on. He wanted to kiss the Queen when she looked pleadingly to the Hand, begging for him to take her head now. She'd confess to any crime as long as the two of them, Tyrell girl and the Imp were not together in the same breathing space as her.

"Lady Margaery …" Tyrion greeted before anyone.

"Hello Lord Tyrion" She curtseyed elegantly. The perfect execution brought a private eye roll and a disinterested pull away from the Queen.

The small man gave her attire a leering gaze. "That's quite a gown, my lady." Tyrion spoke respectfully. If Cersei thought it would do anything she might have voiced the opinion that only her brother would point that out, he being the expert on whores.

To the comment, the seductive maiden gave a spin in the tight silken dress with golden thorn embroidery. "I know, it's not suited for the cold." She admitted to what she perceived everyone was thinking. "But this chill is quite rare. I wasn't anticipating this kind of weather … especially coming from High Garden." She began to explain to Robb who watched her with unreadable eyes. But ever the chivalrous young man Catelyn raised, he cracked his demeanor to give her the slightest of nods of acknowledgement. She gave him a smile back suddenly becoming lost in his gaze for a moment.

"Yes, this being autumn and winter coming … who would think it being so cold?" Cersei's voice was a frigid honey, her smile cutting as her disdainful eyes while she looked the young woman up and down. She knew why Margaery Tyrell wore those dresses, and it wasn't because she didn't know the weather.

But no matter what the Queen threw at the Tyrell girl it seemed to slide off her perfect bare back. "What can I say … roses bloom the most beautiful in the long summers." What cut Cersei was the admiration or the mocking of it that Margaery always spoke to the golden queen with.

"And die the quickest in winter." Cersei's teeth looked like pearly fangs when she barred them in her fake good natured smile.

As cold as it was in the elements no one could deny that it was much colder in the Warden of the North's box. It was a chill that everyone felt all the way down to Podrick Payne who looked to his boots and away from the awkward atmosphere being brewed between the two women. The only one who wasn't seemingly affected was Tyrion.

Snorting through a mouthful of hard cider, the youngest Lannister spoke up. "Dying in the winter? The Lord Hand might make you a Stark yet, sweet sister." Cersei glared at the amusement and the stench of alcohol her brother spoke with.

Margaery turned to Robb. "His grace has been telling me that the north has a special rose that grows only in the winter?" She asked with an interest in what the young hero of the Whispering Woods had to say. "I hear they're blue." She glanced at Cersei lifting an eye brow.

To this query Robb cautiously eyed his father. While Cersei smirked, moving her own side eyed gaze to Eddard with vengeful anticipation. Before the question, the Hand was content with allowing the ladies to have their sparring match. But at the mention of the winter roses, melancholy gray eyes became a shade darker in a flash.

"Lady Margaery … I believe you came here for a word of some importance?" Eddard never lost his courtesy. But there was something dangerous underneath his even voice. Sensing that the tide was turning against her, the young woman smiled understandingly before the honorable man.

"Yes my lord." She nodded. She turned to Cersei. "I came only to wish her grace the very best of luck today." There was no hesitation in the sincerity in which she delivered her words … she was a natural. "I prayed to The Mother last night for your safety, and The Father for guidance to be bestowed upon you in this dark time." She reached and took one of the Queen's hands in both of hers. Cersei looked down at the action and with all her might tried not to rip it away.

After a moment she drew away from the contact and back toward Margaery. She met the young woman with a sickly sweet smile in fax humility of her own. "Thank you, Lady Margaery." The Queen placed a hand over the top of the younger woman's. "I pray every night for you as well." She patted her hand.

A surprised and emotionally touched look came over the girl's face. "I'm beyond flattered that you think of me, your grace." She tightened her grip on Cersei's hand. "After all the _long years_ I've looked up to you, to know I'm in your prayers is most humbling." She smiled with deep eyes.

"Yes …" She continued to pat the girl's hand. "You keeping such close council to the King these days, it's all I can do but pray to the Maiden that your virtue may stay in whatever state it was when you arrived." The Queen's face didn't flinch or falter as she spoke with the sweetest of expressions.

Eddard leaned his forehead into an open palm. Robb Stark blinked hard and shook his head as if he had been physically stricken by the statement's aftershock. The sell-sword Bronn raised his eyebrows though avoiding the two women. And all of it capped by the immediate spray of liquid shooting from Tyrion Lannister's nose. "Oh'shit" Tyrion sniffed out as cider and strings of mucus dripped onto his lap. Podrick quickly charged forward with a handkerchief.

A perfect eyebrow nearly touched Margaery's hairline, and a lovely structured jaw clenched tightly. Even her blue eyes looked stricken with intensity. Anyone could tell at that moment it was taking all the conditioning and reason in Margaery Tyrell not to let her face change at the verbal strike. She quickly slipped her hands from the queen's and swallowed harshly. She turned to Eddard who had the decency to look apologetic.

She cleared her throat. "Good day, my lords." She curtsied to Robb and Eddard. There was a darker look for Cersei who seemed very smug. "Your Grace." She bit out with all the mock reverence she could muster. With a sweep of skirts she turned to leave.

Suddenly, Robb stood. "A moment, Lady." He reached out and took the beautiful young woman's bare arm covered in goose bumps from the cold. Though fiercely offended of the treatment she had received, there was something in the young lord's eyes that gave her pause. They gazed at one another for a beat longer before the auburn haired youth unclasped his well-used heavy fur lined cloak. The usually unflappable Margaery seemed almost teary eyed as Robb gently draped his warm cloak around exposed shoulders. The heavy northern winter wear seemed almost like a godsend to the seductive beauty.

"Won't you be cold, my lord?" She asked cautiously.

Being forward as it was, Robb reached out and scrubbed her covered arms, generating warmth for her. "I grew up in the north, my lady … we'd call this swimming weather." When finished his smirk grew to a smile as he elicited a laugh from the southern girl.

For the first time Margaery Tyrell seemed out of words as the two looked into one another's eyes. "Thank you." There had never been a more genuine word spoken from her trained mouth in all of the young woman's life. It seemed that Margaery had found someone of her own, that she was not taught to like.

But as soon as the growing affection was there it was gone. There was a sudden blank, glassy eyed look in the girl's eyes. "I'm sorry, my lord … the King waits." There was a strange disconnect to her very official voice as she turned and left without another word. Robb frowned, watching her go, before gazing angrily to the King's box to find the Red Woman turning away quickly.

He ran his hands through his dark hair and slowly sank back to his seat. His crystal eyes were drawn to where Lady Margaery had left. But when returned to his companions he was met with a host of looks. Cersei looked completely beside herself with distaste, Tyrion toasted the boy, and Eddard had a knowing smirk. Robb sank a little in his seat, a touch of blush covered by his auburn stubble.

"That was your first mistake, m'lord."

Everyone turned toward Bronn, even the Queen tilted her head to hear better. Robb sat straighter. "How's that Sell-Sword?" He made the designation sting. But it only rolled off the rogue's greasy hair.

"I did some work in Volantis in m'life, and I learned very quickly that it was very unwise to leave your personal things were one of R'hllor's priestess's can get their hands on it. And judging from the hunch that little girl doesn't go anywhere that Red Woman doesn't tell her … Some would say what you just did was quite careless." He maintained his carefree almost insolent tone as he spoke. When he was done, he made it all sound as if he was warning the Lord of Winterfell away from an errand wager on a joust.

The young hero shifted in his seat as all eyes fell back to the field. As if proving the rogue's point, Margaery, still with the disconnected and glassy look in her eye, met Melisandre next to a brooding Robert. Her leather gloved hands ran over the fox fur lining almost sensually as Margaery told her of what had happened. As the young beauty slid back into her chair, saying something to a disinterested Robert, the Priestess turned back to Robb. She gave a condescendingly ambiguous smile at the noble gesture. It was as if Robb was a young lad spilling his seed prematurely on a whore's hand after she barely touched his manhood.

Both Eddard and Cersei noticed the death grip that the young soldier had the pommel of his arm rest. Among all in the capital, Melisandre of Ashai seemed to bother Robb Stark the most. He disliked the arrogance she wore fluttering the halls of the Red Keep, and the influence she held over women like Margaery, who at times looked frightened and defeated as they did the Red Woman's will. It would be a dangerous battle the young lord would be picking if he chose to challenge her, but it wouldn't be the first he fought.

Eddard reached out and placed a calming hand on Robb's shoulder. Under the familiar paternal touch the darkness in Robb stark went away and he silently agreed to let the matter go for the time being. Meanwhile, cleaned up from his surprise snarf, Tyrion worked on emptying another flask.

"Well … We might be all hacking down our Weirwood trees, and burning our Septs soon enough." Tyrion announced with a long sigh, taking a nip of the Arbor Gold he was working on.

Cersei rolled her eyes. "What do you mean?" She asked.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

"I should not be surprised … I almost forgot who I was talking too."

With a set jaw, the Queen was about to pounce when Tyrion spoke. "Don't you find it odd, that the Red Woman has become so interested in Margaery Tyrell? This being the same Margaery Tyrell who Renly and the Queen of Thorns have put into Roberts lap?" He asked. "One might ponder if your beautiful head comes off your body, sweet sister, who might replace you …" At the mention of her execution Cersei rounded on Tyrion. But the dwarf seemed only amused at her wrath. "If I were a betting man, I'd say it would be Margaery Tyrell, who just happens to be the closest follower of Melisandre of Ashai … the most devote of her sisterhood." He seemed so smug with himself when he was finished.

No one who had been sitting in their little group ever pondered the idea that Melisandre, a red priestess from the far east was making such a bold and powerful move in the game by accepting a simple lunch invitation. It was a simple invitation that could lead to generations of bitter and bloody holy wars throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

Tyrion stretched in boredom. "I can almost see the smoking ruins of Baelor's from here … can you imagine it aflame?" He asked rhetorically, gesturing to the imaginary picture of grand domes on fire, statues pulled down, and bursting stain glass.

A cold hatred seeped inside Cersei Lannister as she looked to Robert. "I can …" She answered. "Every night in my dreams." She sneered under her breath.

It was as if no one heard her but Eddard. He knew of what she spoke of. There were nights when he was awoken from her angry tears, calling for Jaime and for Ned to come save her as her father and Jon Arryn drag her fighting to the alter were a drunken Robert, fat and old waits for her. When Ned wakes her, there was betrayal in her eyes. She turns over and does not want him to touch her. Even after their night together so many years ago, the wounds of what came after were still fresh. Though Cersei's love never died her bitterness forever carried on in attachment. Remembering all the nights she waited up for Eddard as a lecherous, drunken fool, snored next to her. Hoping in a mad state of sleeplessness that he would come rescue her from this unhappy life her father and her ambition had made for her.

Quietly, he moved his hand to place on top of the Queen's. But the moment she felt it hovering, she slowly moved it away. He was stricken by the bitterness in the action, but he didn't say a word. Cersei folded her hands in her lap as the clear ring of trumpets echoed through the stadium. The announcement was met by a deafening roar as the armor of parading Knights glinted in the light of the cold afternoon.

From a ground tunnel emerged the great knights in all of the Seven Kingdoms. They were the lords to minor houses, son's, brothers, nephews, and heirs to the great lords watching from their dais. They were dressed in ordinate and expensive armor that glinted and glimmered in the cold sunlight in their polish. Each of the finely, and some soldiers would say impractically dressed, lord and lordling entering the field hoped to win the title of King's Champion. They rode from the tunnel on a dirt covered track were their squires, armorers, and servants walked toward stations in front of their lieges star points. From open gates in the perimeter fencing the Knights rode onto the frosted field of grass trotting over the ground as their men set up.

The fancy armored competitors buzzed and flocked around the field like glinting and glimmering flies, exchanging words with one another as they scouted the field. It was the usual fair of a jest, a boast, or the occasional insult traded by the Knights of Summer who had yet to see a battlefield. For many of them this would be the closest that either of them would ever get to a martial clash of arms. Riding for self-glory and the boast of a plump father to his rivals of the purest seed of greatness squirted from his small manhood inside his unhappy wife he'd never met till their wedding day.

But nowhere on the frozen grass was it escapable to find the Knight of Flowers. For where ever he rode, the scream and squeal of women and girls could be heard. The boy's armor was bright and glimmering, made of a shiny metal with vine and thorn work inlaid upon the breast plate and helmet. It wasn't beyond notice that Margaery Tyrell's dress matched that of her younger brother's armor. All eyes seemed to be on the lad as he leisurely lapped the stadium perimeter trailed by his cousins the Redwyne twins. Each wore a matching suit of armor inlaid with vine work like Loras, though with grapes upon it. The handsome youth, two time champion of Roberts past tourneys was the favorite to win today. As the King's Champion, most all of those competing were convinced that it was a strictly ceremonial position for as of yet Queen Cersei had no champion of her own. With many confident that she would have none.

There were few competing knights that crossed the Stark point. The winged helm of Jason Mallister of Seagard stopped only to greet Robb who he had come to salute after his victories defending the Riverlands from Tywin and Jaime Lannister. Others such as a Hightower boy in white and one of Yohn Royce's brood had accidently wandered toward them, but upon noticing the Queen and Eddard, quickly turned their back on them and rode away.

Dressed in light leather armor of a dark yellow and burnt orange, Oberyn Martell trotted toward the Stark corner. Upon his head was a helm of red metal shaped in the fashion of a snake. None of the lords of the North or their ladies spoke a word as the Red Viper halted his desert charger on the packed dirt of track. He removed his helmet to flash an exotically handsome face of salt and pepper coloring to the Queen. His small dark eyes raked over her beautiful face and golden locks. His hatred felt in the silence he looked her over with.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked with a musical Dornish accent.

The Queen looked contemptuous. "Should I?" She asked with a predatory tilt of her head.

There was a wild venomous smile on the Dornishman's face as he turned his horse. "My name is Oberyn Martell. My sister was Elia Martell; she was the wife of Prince Rheagar Targaryen." He reminded the Queen.

"An unfortunate lot in life." Tyrion Lannister spoke up.

Seeing the dwarf and the Queen sitting together, there was a new fire in the man's eyes. "Yes, unfortunate that she was the wife of the last dragon." He agreed. "Unfortunate that she was attached to the last of a dynasty, before they fell from power." There was a buried threat directed squarely at Cersei Lannister.

For Eddard, he felt his wolf's blood stir inside him. His first reaction was to stand up and challenge the Viper. But then he remembered the massacred remains of the Princess and her children lying under crimson Lannister cloaks. The little girl's paled arms sticking out from her death shroud as Robert approved of such an act, placing a hand on Tywin's shoulder proud of the barbaric offering of loyalty to the new King. Now all he could do is look on darkly as the princess's brother threatened justice that Eddard could not argue with.

"Her children were killed in front of her, before Gregor Clegane raped and murdered her … on your father's orders." He pointed out. "I've waited twenty long years to avenge her and her children. And I swear before the end of today … Tywin Lannister will know my pain." He vowed with an uncontrollable hatred. The plumes of clouds exiting his mouth made it seem as if the Dornishmen was breathing fire.

Suddenly, hidden by the shade of the stadium, a shadowy figure slipped into the spotted light patches. He trotted aggressively toward the Red Viper. His towering black steed thumped Oberyn's smaller horse rudely head to head. The force was not enough to hurt, but the aggressive, barely broken, mustang's snorting and wild demeanor was enough to spook the whickering smaller animal as the figure suddenly began to circle the Viper.

Mounted on the red eyed stallion was an imposing figure that elicited murmurs of fear and alarm as he came to light. He was a knight dressed in the blackest and most sinister armor ever seen. Its plating was thin and ancient looking, obviously reworked recently to fit the man who wore it. Steel fins on his forearms and razor sharp talons on his gauntleted fingers gave this Black Knight a demonic quality. His helm matched the armor's appearance, decorated with dragon or bat wings. The masked visor that hid the Black Knight's face was a terrifying piece of foreign craftsmanship to look upon. Over the years many would try to describe it, and yet every man had his own take that differed from the other. Hidden in the imposing "T" shaped visor were eyes that could not be seen by the shadowy design of the helm and black polish around them. Looking upon him in any light, the most grounded of opponent would swear that there was no man inhabiting the phantom armor at all.

Oberyn Martell did not scare easily, always confident. But he was startled by the sudden appearance as the shadowy knight circled him. He looked like a predator stalking his prey before the hunt, intimidating and bullying the Dornishmen's mount. With each pass a long billowing black cloak on the Black Knight's shoulders flapped in Oberyn's face, while his black steed pushed back the white desert horse the Prince rode, further, and further.

"You think you frighten me?" The prince laughed mockingly. The Black Knight jerked his horse out of orbit. "I've traveled the east, and know Ashai armor when I see it. You might frighten them, but you don't frighten me." He boasted until the Black Knight reigned up to come face to face with Oberyn quietly waiting. His action was a silent challenge, daring the Dornish prince to compare this sinister shadow to the rest of the knights in the tourney. When it didn't come, a long hard breath exhaled a thick frothing cloud in Oberyn's face.

There was a wild exhilaration that filled the Prince the longer he stared into the terrifying war mask into the faceless darkness within the eye slits. The Dornish blood simmering in Oberyn's veins pounded heavily in his ears, while his dark eyes lusted desperately for battle and blood. Breaking apart, the combatants slowly began to circle around each other. The frigid air on the field and in the Stark ranks watching was suddenly filled with deadly tension, as even unarmed, the circling figures poised for battle with one another. The attention was drawn from all over the stadium as even the great knights halted to watch what would happen. Finally, a large group of the City Watch led by Ser Barristan Selmy himself began to approach the scene. They were dispatched and determined to keep the peace between the other competitors till the flag dropped and trumpets sounded. As the Gold Cloaks began forming up with their tall pikes, it garnered the prince and the Black Knights attention. They paused their deadly pacing and stood across one another, separated by only several yards. After a long moment the prince shot a vengefully smoldering look of death toward his new opponent, a silent promise to look for him on the field. With a howled cry, wheeling his desert charger around, the Dornish prince vacated the Stark area of the field at an adrenaline fueled gallop.

When the confrontation was over, the Black Knight rounded his midnight steed till he faced the Stark bench. All in the Northern crowd and the crowded towers above them seemed uncomfortable and intimidated by such darkly frightening attire the knight wore. His black cape fluttered in the air like a banner as he looked to the Lord Hand's dais. Eddard waited for him to say something, but the Black Knight didn't.

For every knight on the field, dressed in the shining armor of heroes, they all chase the romantic notions of the stories they grew up with. Each wanting to prove their prowess in battle with a holy chivalry they aspire to and have sworn a vow to pursue onto death. But for this Black Knight, he was not dressed for a tourney, but true battle. A battle he was never under the delusions of morally justifying. He wore a sinister suit of dragon armor, black as midnight. His face was unseen, covered by an awful ruined image of some unknown evil from a foreign land. He felt that had earned every piece of the armor he wore, all of it reflecting the man he had seen himself become. A man he had become in the pursuit of one purpose.

His gaze fell upon that purpose for the longest time. It was unwavering and unhalted as he studied every inch of her. Cersei gazed back as much as she dared as the frightening war mask that served as knight's visor brought out a deep childlike anxiety the longer she looked into it. The Queen and the Black Knight were a study in contrast, and frightening demon of the shadow world and a shining angelic beauty of the heavens.

But before Cersei could languish any longer over the piercing sightless gaze of the shadowy figure the ringing of trumpets sounded recall for all the competitors. The dragon winged helm turned back over shoulder watching the other knights file back off the field. Before leaving he turned back to the dais.

Lifting two talons, he used them for a two fingered salute aimed at Tyrion Lannister. All eyes fell on the Imp as he slouched in his seat comfortably. The easy, lounging look of the dwarf suddenly melted before their eyes and was replaced by a rare face that was deadly serious. Tyrion gave him a quiet nod of confidence.

Rearing his steed in sight of the North, the Hand, and the Queen, the Black Knight stormed away into the frozen afternoon as the tournament for the King's Champion began.

* * *

><p><span><strong>The Autumn Wind<strong>

_The Autumn Wind is a **pirate**  
>Blustering in from sea,<br>With a rollocking song, he sweeps along,  
>Swaggering boisterously.<em>

_His face is weather beaten.  
>He wears a hooded sash,<br>With a silver hat about his head,  
>And a bristling black mustache.<em>

_He growls as he storms the country,  
>A<strong> villain<strong> big and bold.  
>And the trees all shake and quiver and quake,<br>As he robs them of their **gold**._

_The Autumn Wind is a raider,  
>Pillaging just for fun.<br>He'll knock you 'round and upside down,  
>And laugh when he's conquered and won.<em>

**-Ed Sabol **

_**(Autumn Wind – Sam Spence)**_


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